The Eidetic Factor
by Channel D
Summary: Tim may have a better memory than he thought possible. So why is everyone out to eliminate him? Some talents may be best kept to one's self. McAbby, more than I expected.
1. An Odd Memory

_Disclaimer: _I own nothing of NCIS.

- - - - -

"Yow!" _Tim winced, scooching into himself as a bullet sped dangerously close by. When you are 6' 1", as he was, it was hard to make yourself much smaller of a target. The laws of physics just don't allow mass to veer into another dimension on its owner's demand._

_Ziva was doing most of the return fire for the two of them. Even though Tim was a good shot, there was no contest, in an emergency, who would be the lead shooter. "McGee! Haven't you gotten through to anyone yet?!" she yelled at him. "We're in danger of being_ slaughtered _out here!!" _Wham! Wham! _Another set of bullets whooshed through; one bullet rustling her hair as it flew by._

"I'm trying!!" _he yelled back in frustration. "I already told you; a lot of the cell coverage inside NCIS today is full of dead zones because most of our staff is idiotic enough to use the same carrier, whose cell tower was taken out in last night's thunderstorm!" None of the numbers he had for NCIS people were responding. _

"I-Don't-Care _what the limitations are! You get someone to get us out of this, or my last slug_ will have your name on it!"

_They were in a fix; no doubt about it. Their investigation of a murdered Marine who may have been involved in espionage had lead them to this unused factory – where the FBI was also taking an interest. At least, they thought it was the FBI. Rookies, maybe? Who ever it was, they weren't taking Tim and Ziva's word that they were on the same side. The old factory had little power running, the lights were poor; the air was dust-heavy, making visibility limited. The FBI were in an area where their swoop caps were identifiable; Tim and Ziva were in a darker corner, and theirs were not. If Tim couldn't get through to someone to call off the FBI, NCIS could be down two agents very, very soon._

"Think, _McGee!! Come up with a phone number!!_ NOW!!"

"_I've called everyone except my_ mother!! _What; do you think I have the _President of the U.S._ in _my directory?!"

"_NO EXCUSES!!"_

"_ALL RIGHT, ALL READY!!"_ Think, Tim!! _The only NCIS landline phone that he knew of was the public line, and that was ringing constantly busy. Probably because no one can get through to the cells; they're all calling in on that line. He thought and thought; tightening the muscles in his face._

_Suddenly an image came into his mind. He was looking at it, although his eyes were closed, as if it were on a flat surface before him. ORK ORDE, it said at the top. Almost forgetting his dangerous surroundings, he gazed at the picture, knowing it must be relevant somehow. Below those letters, he read slowly, from left to right, as if a light was gradually coming on at each step of the way: 02) 555-739...A phone number! It must be a Washington number; with the first number of the area code, 202, cut off by...was that a piece of paper covering it? And what was the number after the 9, dim and partially covered? Something round, must be a 6. What was this number? Where did his mind pick it up? He had no idea. Had Providence sent it to him? Even if it was the number of the local Starbucks, maybe they could send for help. He repeated the number to himself, three times, and let the image fade from his mind as he dialed._

- - - - -

Jenny picked up the landline phone on her desk when it chimed in three tones. "Wanda, I've told you twice now; I _will not_ host a bridal shower for anyone who insists on the guests showing up wearing _grass skirts and coconut bras!_ I don't care _how_ much the bride likes Hawaii! _Stop calling me!!"_

"Director?! Wow!!..." He had to swallow before continuing. "This is Tim McGee. Ziva and I—"

"_McGee?!_ What the _hell _are you doing on my private phone line?!"

"I don't know, ma'am! But we're in trouble; _please listen!_ Ziva and I are pinned down in gunfire from the FBI who don't believe we're NCIS. We're shooting _in_ their direction; not _at_ them, but we're about out of ammo. We can't raise anyone else at all, and –"

"All right, McGee. You two try to stay safe. Give me your location and I'll fix it.." These must be the intellectual runts of the FBI litter. _No one,_ she hoped, _drowned undersized pets any more, but sometimes,_ she thought_, the bad old ways might be wisely applied to humans._.._hmmm_. She pulled up her electronic Rolodex and called her FBI contact.

- - - - -

"McGee. Sit down," Jenny said to him about two hours later as he entered her office. Her tone was decidedly unfriendly. She glanced behind him, saw Gibbs coming in his wake. "Jethro, I don't remember inviting you," she said in a no-friendlier voice.

Gibbs sat anyway, beside Tim on the couch. "You discipline my agent, I intend to be present."

"I didn't say anything about disciplining McGee!"

"Then why did you go through _me _to tell _him_ to get up here?" Gibbs gave her a look that Tim would never dare attempt.

She sighed, knowing she'd lost this skirmish, but there would be many more. "McGee, while I am glad that you and Ziva are safe now, you're going to have to tell me: _where_ did you get my private phone number?! Even Gibbs doesn't have it."

She looked to Gibbs for confirmation, and he nodded. "Got too many numbers in my directory _now."_ He pulled out his phone; glared at the weak, solitary bar it raised.

Tim put his left hand over his bandaged right hand, which was throbbing. There a bullet had ever-so-slightly grazed him; it hurt, but was otherwise a very minor injury. And it didn't seem to be buying him any sympathy. "I—I don't know, Director. I didn't know it was your number when I called it."

"Why were you dialing numbers at random?!" said Gibbs, incredulous.

"Boss, I wasn't! I...I think I remembered the number."

"Impossible!" said Jenny. "I've never made it known to anyone here at NCIS." She leaned over her desk, and her voice turned deadly. "McGee, if you've been snooping in my private matters—"

"_NO, ma'am! NEVER!"_ he cried, over her _"your ass will be NAILED to my WALL!"_

"_Then EXPLAIN how you got my private NUMBER, McGee!"_

He didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure of anything, other than the chances of him getting out of this room alive seemed to be smaller and smaller. Both Jenny and Gibbs looked ready to stone him.

"_ANSWER her, McGee!" _Gibbs roared.

"_I couldn't get anyone else on the phone! _I racked my mind for phone numbers. Then all of a sudden I saw that number..."

"What do you mean, you 'saw' it?!"

"Like...like a picture. I think it must have been a piece of paper I was reading..."

"While you were under fire, you were reading a piece of paper?! _McGee!!"_

"_NO, _boss! I saw it in my mind. But it seemed very real. Part of the area code was cut off, and part of the last number. And there were strange letters above it, what were they...? Let me see..." He had to stop to think, but within a second or two again the image was visible to him, even with his eyes open. He read it off, from left to right. O-R-K, space, O-R-D-E. And..." he strained, squinting. "I think some letters above that, but I ... only the bottoms of the letters are visible. I don't know..."

Jenny's eyes grew large. She got up and rummaged through a small safe, finally withdrawing a paper. "Did it look like this?" The paper she held out to him read, in large letters, _Verizon Installations / Work Order / (202) 555-7396_, and a lot of smaller type below that.

He blinked a few times to bring the image back to his mind. The fonts matched. "Yes, ma'am."

"But _when,_ McGee?! And _how?"_

Again he struggled; not sure how he had known what was on that paper. A trick of the memory? Slowly, another image appeared; larger, darker, less distinct. Jenny at her desk; Gibbs facing her, on the left side of the image; Tony to Gibbs' right; a suit coat sleeve – was that his own? Yes, his old, brown tweed suit. _What the hell?_ Ziva to his right. Jenny's desk. Papers on it. He willed himself to zoom in; found that he could, at least somewhat. There! "It...was on your desk, ma'am. You wore...a corsage. It was yellow. And a dark blue suit. We were all in your office. I think it was..."

"My first day here," Jenny said, quietly. "I was meeting all of you. And the work number for my private phone line must have been on my desk."

"There was a...something on it. A snow globe."

"A gift from my goddaughter..." She and Gibbs exchanged curious looks, then glared at Tim.

Gibbs slapped the sofa, hard. _"God damn it,_ McGee!! _Why didn't you tell us you have total recall?!" _

"Boss! I don't! That's impossible!"

"You certainly appear to, McGee," Gibbs' tone was mild but his look was unsympathetic.

"That's not what I mean! There's _no such thing_ as total recall, or photographic memory, or eidetic memory, to call it by its proper name."

Jenny raised an eyebrow. "It doesn't exist, yet it has a proper name?"

Tim ignored that. "It's one of those concepts that sounds really cool, but science hasn't been able to quantify it. Memory just doesn't work that way. There _are_ some studies that say it exists, but most say it's hogwash!"

Again Gibbs and Jenny exchanged looks, but this time they broke out laughing. "McGee," Jenny said, "who do you work for?"

_It's finally happened. I'm losing my mind. Maybe they have, too._ "Uh..._you,_ ma'am."

She waved a hand, dismissively. "No, no. In the organizational sense."

"Uh, NCIS, ma'am."

"Broader."

"The federal government?"

"Narrower."

"Uh...the Department of the Navy?"

"Close enough. I was going for the Department of Defense. McGee, surely you are aware that the military carries out a lot of research that is not made public. We do it, Russia does it, a number of countries do it. You may be too young to remember, but during the Cold War, there were always stories that the Soviet Union was doing tests on ESP, parapsychology, and such."

Gibbs jumped in. "Each side wants to get an edge on the other, and won't pass up a chance to study something that might give their team an edge, no matter how lunatic it sounds."

"I _don't have_ an eidetic memory, boss," Tim said, a note of despair in his voice. _Why won't they see reason?! _"Don't you think I'd know it if I did?!"

"Maybe, maybe not," said Gibbs. "Didn't you have to struggle to recall that paper, and that scene? Had you thought of those since the day the Director arrived?" He noticed Tim's pained look, and only grinned.

"We'll get you tested, McGee," Jenny said, crisply. "Keep your schedule open this week."

Tim put his head in his hands. He knew his memory did weird tricks, sometimes; had known that all his life. It wasn't something he talked about. _Testing? Freak show, here I come..._


	2. Testing

"Sooooo, Probie..." Tony began the next morning, bright and early. "Word on the street is that you had a little _tete-a-tete_ with our Fearless Leader yesterday afternoon. What's up with that?"

_And so another perfect day begins._ Tim sighed, knowing that his coffee would likely be cold before this discussion died."Gibbs was there, too, Tony. A _tete-a-tete_, strictly speaking, involves just two people."

Tony brightened, and grinned. "Oh! So it was more like a _menage-a-"_ He winced as Gibbs gave him a head slap in passing, but wasn't dissuaded. "C'mon, Probie! Dish!" He walked over to Tim's desk and, standing behind him, leaned down and put his hands on Tim's shoulders, causing the desired effect of Tim wrinkling his nose in irritation. "You can tell ol' Tony. You in trouble..._again?_ What's it this time? Feeding the pigeons at the front entry, against regulations? Keeping a ferret in your desk drawer? Changing the color on the background of the NCIS webpage from blue to sassy-mama pink?"

"I'm not telling you, Tony, so you can just _go away."_ He shrugged out of Tony's grasp.

"_I_ will find out," Tony teased. "I always do. My methods are secretive and highly specialized. They are the envy of the seven continents! Men swoon for and women battle for my tactics, but –"

"McGee!" Gibbs barked, hanging up his landline phone. "Your total recall testing is today at 11 at the Dewey federal building, room 235. Don't be late."

"To-tal Re-call!" Tony pulled the syllables apart, slowly, in delight. "Now that's just...that's just..."

"None of your business? Is that the phrase you're looking for?" Tim said sharply. He realized Tony weren't going to leave him alone until he gave him something, so he opted for the simple explanation. "You know I've been working on improving my memory. This is to give me some memory aids. May come in useful someday, under a decidedly peculiar set of circumstances," he said wryly.

Tony mulled this over. "Oh, okay," he said at last.

_Sometimes it was as easy as that..._

Ziva hung up her landline phone. "A possible break in the case of that murdered Marine. His car has been found in Crystal City. With someone's head in the back seat."

"Let's roll!" said Gibbs. _"Not you,_ McGee. You've got an appointment with the memory spooks..._remember?"_ He chuckled at his own words.

Deflated, Tim sat back down as his team left without him.

- - - - -

In mid afternoon, Jenny took a phone call while Gibbs was in her office. She put the phone on speaker. "Yes, Danny. How did McGee do?"

Laughter came from the person on the line. _"Oh, boy oh boy! He's the real deal, all right!"_

"He has an eidetic memory? You're sure that such a thing exists?"

"_You bet, and no doubt about it. I've seen cases now and then, but I haven't seen a mind work like _this_ in over 20 years! You have a gold mine here, I hope you know."_

"Yes...I suppose so..."

"_Of course, he needs to be trained. His memory is cluttered; disorganized. It takes a lot of effort for him to pull up the memory images. We run a program in memory techniques. We can tailor it to meet his eidetic needs – understand, we don't run across many people with these skills. We'll start him Monday. A week's training should be a good foundation!"_

"Thank you, Danny," Jenny murmured, and hung up. She exchanged a wordless look with Gibbs. He made an excuse, and left.

Gibbs took to the stairs, frowning. _Everything's happening so fast. I don't think I believe in this junk, but it seems like McGee's stuck with this course, whether he likes it or not..._

- - - - -

Tim arrived back at NCIS; excitement and doubt warring in his head. Excitement seemed to have the upper hand. _This could be awesome if it really does exist! Imagine the things I could do with a powerful memory! _He was bursting to tell someone all about it, and Abby had always had the most sympathetic ear for him. The flimsiest of excuses to see her came out of his mouth. Gibbs, curiously, either didn't seem to mind, or didn't seem to care.

The scientist/goth eyed him, sizing him up, when he came in. "Tony says you have an eidetic memory."

He read the accusation in her voice; brushed it aside. "I had some tests done; they were so cool! Let me tell you about them, Abbs—"

"Tim! _Listen_ to yourself! You've had too much education to believe in this...bull feathers! You went to _MIT,_ for crying out loud! You were a top student there!"

"What does that have to do with anything?! MIT also has a School of Business; but I didn't take any classes_ there! _This is no more your educational background than it is mine! Abby, just because this isn't everyday stuff doesn't mean it can't exist. You don't see neutrinos, but they exist. You don't see the _wind,_ but you know _it_ exists!"

"Quit changing the subject. Tim, there's _no such thing_ as an eidetic memory!"

"Oh, no?" he said, his heart starting to sink. The sympathetic ear must be out of town today. "Want me to recite a list of all MIT hacks, back to 1948?"

"You probably memorized that years ago."

Actually, he hadn't. And he wasn't sure he could recite all the recorded student practical jokes back to then; there were usually a half dozen or so a year. But he _had_ read lists in the past, and was reasonably certain that, with some effort, he could pull up at least some years' lists.

Her look kept him from bothering to peel back his memory for them. "I thought that you, as a scientist, might have an open mind," he said, quietly. "I guess I was wrong." He turned for the elevator.

Immediately she felt guilty. Whether she agreed with him or not, she knew she had no right to hurt a friend. "Tim! Wait!" She ran, grabbed him about the waist, and hugged him fiercely. "I'm sorry. It's hard, but I'll try to put a foot in my mind's door to keep it open...it's a really _nice_ door; with a stained glass window and a wreath of dried flowers underneath..."

His heart blossomed. "That's all I ask...Want to take in a movie with me tonight? _Total Recall_ is playing at the art house."

She grinned. and hugged him again. "How can we pass up an opportunity like that? Bet you can't memorize all the dialogue."

"You're on!"

- - - - -

He _did_ surprise her with his memorization; whole chunks of dialogue from a number of scenes. She couldn't prove that he was accurate, but it sounded true, and he didn't appear to be pulling it out of thin air. He actually had to think a bit for each scene. She was still skeptical, but began to wonder how this worked for him. A memorization trick, probably.

For winning the bet – she charitably didn't hold him to remembering _all_ the dialogue – she agreed to a date for the next night, Saturday, and let him choose the venue: dinner at a nice restaurant, followed by jazz at a coffeehouse.

The music Saturday night turned out to be louder than she had expected, and she had a headache by the end of the evening. She didn't want to hurt his feelings again by finding any fault with the evening, so she just gave him a peck on the cheek at her door and bade him goodnight; confident that she had handled that well. He smiled, but went away, dejected, as soon as she was safely inside; wondering why he was such a loser that she wouldn't invite him in.

- - - - -

The following week was one that Tim would classify as _amazing._ Of course it was something different to occupy his day, and of course it was nice to be away from NCIS. But the memory training! In spite of his inner doubts, he found it fascinating. Logic tests, games, spatial recall...it all came down to one basic principle: memory tended to be inexact in adults because they were processing more information than they had as children.

Studies estimated that perhaps as many as one in twelve children had some eidetic capability. As Tim had unwittingly done the previous week, these children could memorize a scene, or sounds, and then recall them, nearly in full. Usually visual images came in the form of flat scenes, like a piece of paper. While nearly all adults pulled items from their memories out of holes of all shapes (an address, a registration number, the lines of a joke), eidetics actually _saw_ the paper it was printed on. Taking in the "paper" in whole was often difficult; it usually required "reading" in normal reading activity. Quite often these "papers" disappeared, forever, after not too long a time. But Tim was one of a too-small-to-be-measured-percentage who had the ability to call up any of his "papers"; no matter how old.

He practiced the exercises they had given him all weekend. He took a bus tour around Washington; memorized the driver's spiel pretty accurately, as well as the number of streetlights, stop signs, and cars with blaring radios as the bus went along. He memorized newspaper articles: something a little harder, because the smaller type was a little fuzzy on recall. He could recite, word for word, each of the comic strips in the newspaper, too, and accurately describe the action. By Sunday night, his head was full. He tried knocking it off with a bottle of beer; it wasn't as helpful as aspirin, but it tasted a lot better.

_Man; this is going to be such a killer with my job!_ Never again forgetting a license plate number. Or a face? That was a skill he still wasn't good at, yet, but he had confidence that it would come. Lists and data? They'd be _begging him_ to command them! His future looked bright as the new day's sun.

- - - - -

Monday, an hour after he'd arrived at work, he and Gibbs were summoned to the Director's office. Gibbs didn't meet his eyes.

_I can't be in trouble again! I wasn't here_ at all_ last week! She probably just wants to know how the training went..._

"McGee, Jethro, thanks for coming," Jenny said, uncharacteristically hospitable. "Would you like coffee? Water?"

_She's nervous. Why?_

"McGee, I've heard that your training went very well," she said, looking down at her desk.

"It really did! I went in not believing in this stuff, but they showed me how to store memories so much more efficiently, and..." his voice trailed off. Neither Jenny nor Gibbs were listening to him.

"So well," Jenny said, "that we've found a new spot for you in NCIS. Starting tomorrow, you'll be joining Intel. They'll make great use of your new talents, I'm sure."

_Intel?! No, no NO!_ "But, ma'am...!"

"Please clean up as much of your case work as you can today; that would be appreciated. Thank you, McGee."

She nodded at him, her face unexpressive, and he knew he'd been dismissed. He walked out, in shock; not caring if it showed on _his_ face or not. _No more field work? Just slave to a computer all day long? This wasn't what I signed up for..._

"Damn it, Jenny," Gibbs said when the door closed behind Tim. "This isn't fair to him; nor to me. _I_ hired him, and despite too many aggravations from that young idiot, I still want to keep him!"

"Jethro, you know what we're up against here. This is our only choice right now. You know what happens if we don't..."

"No. I can't believe there isn't another way."

- - - - -

Tim took the elevator; bypassing the bullpen altogether. He tried to rehearse what he would say to Abby when he saw her. When the elevator door pinged open, and she met his gaze with a curious look, all he could say was, "I'm going to be seeing so little of you from now on." He told her the whole, short, sad story.

"Tim, can they _do_ that? Reassign you, or reclassify your job without your permission?"

"I don't know. I guess so." He might have been able to pull up the employee handbook from memory, but didn't feel the effort was worth it. "It's not what I want; I _like_ being an agent doing the gamut of the job. I wish, I _wish_ I had never discovered this stupid memory ability." Involuntarily, he started shaking; grief taking control.

"Oh, Tim; oh Tim; surely Gibbs will get you out of this..." She pulled him close, and kissed him. Tony was calling then on the video communicator; she ignored him. Tim hungrily pulled into the kiss, desperate for the emotional closeness; leaving Tony and Ziva in the squad room looking on with some amusement.


	3. Not Intel?

Tony eyed the wall clock the next morning; double-checked it against the time shown on his computer. Work had started an hour ago; still, the middling box, Tim's sparse collection of personal items in his few years at NCIS HQ, evidently packed up yesterday afternoon while the rest of the team was still out, remained on Tim's desk, not yet picked up. _Odd that he hasn't come for it, to take it to his new desk_...

"All right, you two; come on over to my desk," Gibbs said to Tony and Ziva. "I'll tell you what I know. I can't take your puppy dog eyes anymore."

"I don't have 'puppy dog eyes'," Ziva insisted. "And I'm glad for McGee. This could be a…chance for advancement for him." Her voice was strong, but her eyes, however, were large and melancholy. Like a basset hound's.

Tony shook his head. "This is nuts. I assume he's really on an undercover assignment? Investigating the Legion of Mad Computer Scientists, or something? 'Cause this eidetic memory thing just won't wash with me."

Gibbs sighed. "No, DiNozzo; McGee really does have an eidetic memory. And Intel is the right place for him, because—"

"Why? Because some two-bit spook has bought into that nonsense?! If eidetic memory really existed, don't you think there would be a greater awareness of it; more proven cases than we've seen, like that taxi driver in England who knew over 16,000 telephone numbers?"

"_What?!_ DiNozzo, how do _you_ know so much about it?"

"I had to take some psych courses in college for my education major. I knew someone with a really good memory; she claimed it was eidetic. This inspired me to do a paper on eidetic memory. My conclusion was that it's pure bunk. Sure, about one in twelve kids _do_ have some form of eideticism, but most of that appears to be mild, situation-oriented, and the memories don't last long. Maybe 40 minutes, and then they're gone for good. And the kids outgrow the ability to do any eideticism. There's almost _never_ anything like it in adults."

"Wow." Gibbs had almost started to believe in eidetics; now his doubts were filing back in.

"You started to tell us about Intel?" Ziva prompted.

Gibbs leaned back in his chair. "Here's the deal, but you have to keep this quiet. The Director assigned McGee to Intel in order to keep him at NCIS. We made up a cover, saying that his memory skills were needed in designing something-or-other. Understand that since Friday, when his classes ended, the Director has fielded calls from over 20 agencies, all suggesting that they had good reason to have McGee come work for them – how the government gossips! And there have been a couple of not-at-all friendly calls from agencies and the military _demanding _that we transfer McGee to them."

"Can they do that?" Tony said, his voice hushed. "Demand someone? Isn't that…_slavery?"_

"It doesn't matter what we call it. If they think they can win by making a demand, they will do so."

Tony's mind flashed to scenes from old B-movies of scientists held against their will, researching without end, mentally tortured; prisoners of some unsavory branch of government. _But that stuff doesn't really happen_..._ not here; not now; not in this country…surely…?_ He was afraid to ask. "What can we do, boss?"

"Try to keep him safe. I hope at some point this will be exposed for the nonsense it is, but until then…"

"Should we put guards on his apartment?" asked Ziva. She hated inaction; once presented with a problem, she longed to be doing something.

"Not yet. Let's see how his first day goes."

"So he's not off our team?" Tony finally felt a ray of hope.

"Hell, no! The sooner we can think up an excuse to free him from Intel, the sooner he'll be back with us. But until then..." his gaze fell on Tim's box.

At that moment his cell phone chimed. Immediately Ziva and Tony pulled out their own cell phones; all sighed in relief at finding five bars again. "Gibbs..." His eyebrows shot up, and he looked at his team. "Nope; haven't seen him. I don't know." He hung up. "McGee hasn't shown up at Intel."

"He's flown the coop?!" Tony said, not believing it.

"That's not like him," Ziva said, frowning. "Does he know that this reassignment is just a cover?"

_Damn._ "No, the Director wanted him to settle in before telling him. Thought it would seem more realistic if he came there naturally-distressed about the job change." _Damn._

Ducky called up on the video system. "Jethro, does Abigail have the day off? I went to see her and the lab is completely dark."

Gibbs jumped on his computer; with his admin log-on he could call up personnel records. "She hasn't signed in, and hasn't requested leave for today," he reported back.

"Thanks, Klara!" Tony called over his shoulder. He had beat a quick path to the other side of the squad room, and just as quickly had come back. "Schultz' team saw McGee and Abby leave together, yesterday afternoon, arm-in-arm. Thought it was kinda sweet." His smile was mocking, but there was no malice in his eyes. "What would our Probie do if he felt really desperate?"

"Elope?" Ziva offered. The thought silenced all of them.

- - - - -

So where _were _Tim and Abby? For the answer, turn the clock back to the previous day...

Abby came for Tim when he had finished packing his box at the end of the day. They left the building, arms linked; not caring if anyone noticed. She knew Tim needed her strength tonight; needed to hold onto her while the world crumbled beneath his feet.

They strolled up M Street toward Water Street on the waterfront and a favorite restaurant; the wait for a table would be 20 minutes, but they knew it would be worth it. In the tiny, crowded lobby, they watched a CNN report on a high-mounted TV. _"_..._daring daylight robbery at the Smithsonian. Jewels valued at over $20 million—the Blaineville collection, among other pieces_..._"_

"That's the collection with the _Mountain of Joy_ necklace!" Abby gasped. "It's so..._beautiful!"_

"I didn't know you were into all that gaudy old stuff." _If it doesn't have a skull on it_...

"Well, I—I'm not. Not to wear! But Tim, the workmanship on the settings—and the stones themselves! _Anyone_ would think it's beautiful!"

A vision came to Tim's mind, unbidden. In a case, hanging over the label _Mountain of Joy / Persian empire_ he saw a large, intricate gold necklace set with many faceted stones in several shades of blue. Sapphires? When had he seen that? Must have been when his parents had come on a visit and, doing the dutiful son bit, he'd toured part of the Smithsonian with them. He considered commenting on the vision; decided not to. "What a shame," he said simply.

Over dinner Abby talked about the Blaineville collection, and other pieces in the Smithsonian's various museums, nonstop. _For a woman who would never wear such stuff, she certainly knows a lot about it, _Tim thought. Despite misgivings, Tim found himself growing interested as she told about the history of the pieces, and who they were made for. "You missed your calling, Abbs," he teased. "You should have been a jewelry maker."

She smiled. "Oh, I doubt I have the design skills to make something so pretty." But there was a wistful look in her eye.

When they left the restaurant, night had closed in along the waterfront; ghosts of low fog also starting to form. The temperatures were cooling. September, blessedly, was usually a better month for sleeping. Hand-in-hand they walked, slowly. "What a lovely night," she sighed, looking up at the crescent moon, and dancing a happy jig as a small bat flew overhead. "Tim, I just _know_ things will get a lot better for you! You'll see!"

Her boots clacked softly on the sidewalk. This part of the neighborhood was on the downtrodden side; old businesses; warehouses and such, now dark and still; worn with time. Up ahead three people moved under the watchful glow of a streetlight; a car at the curb at the entrance to a black, smelly alley.

As they walked by, one of the threesome, a man in Naval uniform, bumped into Tim while he loaded a bag into the car's trunk. "Sorry, pal." He did a double take. "Agent McGee?"

Tim willed the name to come to mind. "Ensign Howell! I haven't seen you since...the naval station robbery case last November. How're you doing?"

"Fine, fine, thanks." He seemed a little nervous. "Up here for dinner? An occasion?" He glanced at Abby.

"We're toasting an ending."

"And a beginning, too, I hope?"

"Remains to be seen." Tim didn't much like the man, so he made no attempt to introduce Abby. "Well, I'll see you around. G'night." But this time it was Tim who accidentally bumped the man, causing Howell to drop the heavy leather bag he carried...

...spilling out a sparkling heap of jewelry; caressed in the finest gold and silver, faceted gemstones glowing.

"Oh my gosh," Abby breathed as she and Tim stared. "That's the _Mountain of Joy _necklace. Part of the..." She bent down to pick up the jewelry.

"...Smithsonian robbery today," Tim finished, and looked up to see Howell, the other man, and the woman all holding guns on them.

"Get the jewels, Clarice," Howell directed the woman. He and the other man motioned Tim and Abby into the alley.

"Let her go, Howell," Tim urged, indicating Abby. "She's not an agent, and she won't tell anyone about this." He ignored Abby's wide-eyed, silent _NO, Tim!_

Howell laughed, unpleasantly. "Sorry, McGee; that only works in the movies."

"Well, I don't see many movies. I only know what I've heard."

"Okay. Here's a line that you've probably heard: _Give me your gun._ Take it out and set it down. Then kick it over to me."

Tim did so, more irked than anxious as of yet. This left him weaponless, other than the small knife at his ankle, and even that was more of a tool than a weapon.

"Good. You got anything on you, Goth Lady?"

"You try to touch me and you'll need tattoos to cover up your bruises!"

_Oh, God, Abby; don't make him mad,_ Tim thought. _I can't let him hurt you._

"Clarice! Search her!"

Clarice, in a petty officer's uniform, was the size of a Mack truck. Abby quickly turned silent as the woman patted her down. "She's clean," Clarice announced.

"I should kill you both now," said Howell. "You NCISers have been too hot on my tail as it is, since I offed that Marine. He wanted in on the robbery cut. Feh! A _Marine!_ But I don't want to leave a trail of blood." He unlocked a dirty, rusty, metal door in a wall; switching on a bare light bulb to illuminate a messy storeroom. "Get in! We'll come back for you tomorrow." Howell and his people motioned Tim and Abby inside. After taking Tim's wallet, Abby's purse, their keys and both of their cell phones, the crooks left, pulling the door closed behind them.

Tim lunged at the door. It wouldn't open, and the panic bar seemed to be long gone.

"Hey, that's great news, Tim," Abby said, trying to sound cheerful. "You know who's behind the murder of that Marine!"

"Wonderful," Tim said glumly. "Let's tap out Morse code so the whole world will know."

Abby pulled a tarp out of a box, set it on the dusty floor, and sat down, sniffling. Tim sat down beside her and put his arm around her. Things did indeed look bleak. He kissed her on the cheek, but she didn't respond. There were things that, in stories and in movies, two people did on their supposed last night alive, but that assumed that one of them wasn't turned inward, shaking. All Tim could do for Abby was hold her, and so they gradually fell asleep.

- - - - -

A tapping, a gentle staccato, on the door woke them. Tim sprang up, palming the small knife that he still had; got between Abby and the door.

The door opened, revealing Clarice. She darted in, pulling the door almost closed. _"Get out! Now!"_ she hissed. "Go! I know somewhere you can hide..."

They only could stare. She rolled up a sleeve, revealing a snarling lioness tattoo on her arm. "I couldn't let them kill a tatted sister, now could I?" She and Abby slapped hands, while Tim forced himself to concentrate on a plan rather than wonder about people's crazy priorities.

"It's just after 4 a.m.," said Clarice. "They're going to come for you around 5, before it's light out. You'd better be gone." From the inside of a pocket, she drew out a key; undid the safety pin holding it in place. "Cargo container M904; the docks; two blocks from here, going west. I hide out there now and then, when we've, uh, been working too late. Howell doesn't know about it. It's got food and water I brought in. Now, _go!"_

"How can we get the key back to you?" Tim asked.

"It isn't mine, legally, anyway. And I'm out of here. This op's more than I bargained for."

At her beckoning, they crept out into the quiet darkness. _Maybe we should just head for NCIS_, Tim thought. _As long as no one sees us_...

A car pulled into the alley. _"Run! Run!" _Clarice cried. They ran.

Angry, indistinct voices. The air cracked with gunshots, and from the corner of his eye Tim saw that Clarice, just a step behind them, was down and still. They couldn't stop now. "Keep going!" he said in Abby's ear, even as he felt a sting at his neck. Abby stumbled on the uneven pavement; cried out as she fell onto broken glass. Tim urged her back to her feet.

They rounded a corner; hid behind a dumpster. There they crouched for several long beats; Abby stopping the bleeding from the bullet graze at Tim's neck with tissues from her pocket; Tim dabbing at Abby's knee wound with his handkerchief. "Why aren't they following us?" she finally whispered.

"When Clarice fell, I guess she blocked the alley. They'd have to move her first."

"Poor darling," Abby said with a small choke. "My tatted sister. A big lady, with a big heart."

"Abby, she was a crook...but, yeah," he mused. "We've got to get moving, while we can still travel under darkness."

"How far are we from NCIS? We'd be safe there."

"Assuming we can prove we are who we say we are! Howell took my badge and our building entry cards...and it's about a mile away. They might find us at any point and gun us down. Two blocks to the docks is a lot closer. We can hide out in the cargo container until one of us" ..._me, not you_..."can get to a phone and call for help. It might take 24 hours, when they've likely stopped searching this immediate area."

She swallowed, nodded, and they quietly crept to the dockyards.

The cargo container was easy to find, and the key opened it easily. It was mostly full of boxes of pillows! Bound for...that wasn't clear. The container had a small nook in which bottled water, packages of sliced pepperoni, dried apricots, M&Ms, and saltines were stored. Tim and Abby fell upon the water; each slugging down a bottle; not caring that it wasn't cold. Clarice had left some of the pillows out, and they laid down on them; quickly falling asleep.

- - - - -

A great shaking awoke them sometime later, and the container pitched. It was being loaded!

"Tim," Abby said, her voice a mixture of fear and wonder, "I think we're off on another adventure..."


	4. Missing

"At least they left her ID. Maybe they're trying to help us do our job. I like it when crooks do that," Tony remarked around noon that day, grimly. The team was in the alley off Water Street, having been notified of the finding of a Navy petty officer's body. "She's Clarice Berkley, age 25, stationed here in Washington."

"Shot twice in the back," Ducky said, bending over the body. "Poor girl. I wonder from what, or from whom, she was fleeing?"

"Time of death?" Gibbs asked, scanning the alley.

"Around 5 this morning, I would say. No other trauma evident. Position indicates she was running when she was shot. She knew she was in danger."

"Blood here...and here...and here." Ziva put down markers, swabbed samples, and Tony snapped pictures. She walked slowly up the alley. "And..." she knelt; dabbed a swab in the blue-toned light. Even in the middle of the day, the alley did not receive much sunlight. "...blood, I'm pretty sure that's what this is, up here! And here, too!" She marked three more spots.

"I don't think Berkley's blood made it all the way up there," Tony remarked. "The closer spot is about eight feet from where she fell. Splatter patterns, though, are in the same direction – and in motion."

"We've got more than one victim, then," said Gibbs. "Someone else running away, and maybe still alive. Certainly a witness."

- - - - -

Back at NCIS, Gibbs trotted up to Intel to beg the assistance of one of their people who could sometimes pinch hit for Abby in the lab. He hadn't expected, but wasn't entirely surprised, to find the Director there.

"Jethro, McGee hasn't shown up for work today," Jenny said, severely. "What do you know about this?"

"Nothing. He's not my man anymore; he doesn't report to me." Of course this was a fiction, and Jenny knew it, and so did Zelig, the acting head of the Intel division; but Gibbs had to say this in case anyone would overhear.

Zelig sighed, and scratched his bearded chin. "Well...I don't want to mark him as AWOL. That's a bad way to start a new job. The pay period's just begun; I'll put him on annual leave and we'll fix it when he shows up. Though that better be _soon."_

"I came up here to ask if I could borrow Kaneesha. Abby's not in today, and I need some lab work done, stat."

Zelig shrugged. "Okay with me. You know where her desk is."

Gibbs headed off, avoiding looking at Jenny's face, where he knew he'd see straight through to the wheels turning in her brain. He wasn't ready to answer any of _those_ questions.

- - - - -

"You just want IDs on these blood samples?" Kaneesha asked shortly thereafter in the lab, wearing one of Abby's labcoats. It was long on her short body, but still, she looked right at home in it.

"Yes. Number one is from the victim. Two, three and four are unidentified. See if you can find a match on the databases."

"Roger wilco, Gibbs!" She saluted him with one hand, and with the other, gave Abby's stuffed hippo, Bert, an affectionate squeeze.

"Thanks...and be sure to leave the lab just the way you found it."

"I know. A vengeful Abby is a fearsome sight!"

- - - - -

Gibbs was taking a break, a fresh coffee in hand, when Kaneesha called up an hour later. She sounded stressed. "Maybe you'd better come down here, Gibbs." He did so, beckoning to Tony and Ziva to follow.

Kaneesha wrung her hands. "Sample one is from Petty Officer Berkely, all right. I crosschecked it with a sample Ducky gave me."

"And the rest?" Jethro held back his comments. She wasn't one of his people; he couldn't show his impatience as he'd do with his team.

"I have matches," she said. "Though I hate it; it scares me..."

"_Kaneesha, please!"_

"Okayokayokay!" She looked ready to come apart.

Gibbs sighed, knowing there had indeed been a reason why she'd not gotten the special agent job she'd put in for. _Some people don't work well under pressure._

Deep breath for Kaneesha. "I heard that Tim McGee didn't show up for work today. He was supposed to start with us in Intel. And of course, Abby didn't either, which is why I'm here..." She looked ready to cry. "Gibbs, samples two and four match Tim's file; sample three is Abby's."

"_What?!_ Never mind; I heard you the first time," Gibbs said over Tony's and Ziva's gasps.. "Ziva – Abby's apartment. DiNozzo – take McGee's. Move, people; _move!" _They were out the door before he finished talking. Gibbs lingered half a second to give Kaneesha a one-armed hug. "You did good, Kaneesha. Thanks!"

"You're welcome!" she called to his swiftly-departing back, as she removed the lab coat that she'd carefully kept clean and hung it back in Abby's locker. "Now back to my nice, _much_-less-stressful job," she murmured, while hoping Tim and Abby were okay.

- - - - -

"The place is a mess, boss," Tony called in, stepping gingerly over the former contents of bookshelves and the like in Tim's apartment. "Someone really did a number on this place. Which is it that comes first: pillaging or sacking? I can't remember. And there's no sign of McGee. No sign of a struggle, either, though. No forced entry; they either picked the lock or had McGee's keys. I've dusted for prints."

"Then head on back, DiNozzo. Ziva's reported the same at Abby's apartment."

"Got it." Tony hung up; wanting answers, feeling scared.

- - - - -

"Let's put our cards on the table," Jenny said, not long afterwards, as the team joined her in her office. And so they did. They'd established that McGee and Abby were last seen by NCIS yesterday as they left work. No one knew where they were going after that; it could have been anywhere. There'd been no answer on their cell phones all day, and the GPS chips weren't locating the phones, indicating that the phones were damaged. _Or at the bottom of the Potomac River_, Tony thought gloomily. There'd been no useage on either phone for over 24 hours. A trace had been put on their credit and ATM cards; they hadn't been used, either. They were apparently alive as of around 5 in the morning when Petty Officer Berkley had been killed, but where were they now? Captured? Hurt? So close they had been to NCIS – why hadn't they called for help? Or run there for help? And why, oh why, had they been in that alley at 5 a.m.?

"To me, the small amount of blood of theirs found indicates that their injuries were minor," said Ziva. "Abby's spot involved a small amount of broken glass. She may have fallen on it; cut her hand."

"They may feel they're threatened," said Jenny, "and unable to get a communication out. Still, I have confidence in them. And without a doubt, McGee will do everything he can to protect Abby."

"We're out of clues." Gibbs rose and paced. "Ziva, DiNozzo – go back to that alley. _Find something._ And hurry – their lives may depend on this!"

- - - - -

At the Navy base, Ensign Howell performed his duties well, as he always did, but his mind was elsewhere. He thought of the small piece of paper he'd taken off Clarice's body before they'd fled the scene; a scrap that read _container M904_. Must be a cargo container number. He'd often wondered if she had a little base of operations somewhere; that must be it. Where was the key? Had it been on the safety pin in her pocket?

Had she passed it on to McGee and the witchy girl? Why else would she have been in the alley at that hour if not to set them free? And certainly, someone had. McGee and the girl weren't in their apartments. NCIS hadn't come for him, so they hadn't gotten back there, either; hurrah. Not yet, anyway. They must be hiding out at the docks. That was the only explanation. He'd get another pass and go there once his shift was over. And then he'd eliminate them once and for all...

- - - - -

_To be continued_...


	5. Shipping

After a few heart-stopping minutes, the cargo container with Tim and Abby inside settled into place with a loud _clang_ that also shook the container, bottom to top They were silent for a few seconds; willing their racing hearts to slow to a trot. "We've got to get out of here, Abby! _Come on!"_ At her hesitation Tim added, "If we've been loaded onto a cargo container ship, a ship at sea could be going for _weeks_, and we don't want other containers to box us in and trap us...!"

She grabbed a six-pack of water, and, sensibly, she thought, the M&Ms (chocolate being a necessity of life for them), and ran for the door. Tim grabbed her as she sprang to open it; held her back. If their container was packed on top of others, it could be a long drop to the ship's deck.

Luck shone on them. Their container was at deck level, and so they stepped out. A shadow fell on them, and Tim looked skyward. _"RUN!" _he yelled as a crane was about to deposit another container right where they stood. They ran madly toward the ship's stern, where the deck was not yet completely covered; almost being jarred off their feet with the thud of the newly-placed container behind them. In the shade of an overhang at what must be the ship's accommodation block, they stopped and looked back. Had the crane operator seen them? Probably not. The deck was almost full now of the first layer of 40-foot-long containers, and would probably soon start a second layer. By some arcane memory, Tim knew the containers were eight feet wide and nine feet tall; or two _teu'_s ("twenty-foot equivalent units"). This was the ISO standard for international shipping. They were of all colors and varied logos, old and new, bound to see the world, these containers. _Kinda romantic in a fashion_...

"We've got to get off the ship," Abby said, breaking his thoughts.

"Yeah...I don't have enough leave time saved up to go anywhere," he said, in a mild grouse.

"How can we get back to the dock without being squashed? That crane could drop anything, anywhere, _anytime!"_

"Let's hide out until they've finished loading. Or dark, whichever comes first."

"Tim, Howell and the other guy – they could be at the dockyards, looking for us!"

"I know." He'd been hoping she wouldn't realize that. "I said earlier we might need to stay put for 24 hours; I still think that."

"But the ship might set sail! _With us on it!"_

"Nah; they probably have to go through all sorts of bills of lading and such. That'll probably take a couple of hours. I think we'll be fine." _I wish I could be as honest with her as I would be with another agent. I really don't like the situation we're in._ "But let's go below deck; see if there's someplace we can hide out in the meantime."

"Why don't we just find the captain and tell him or her the truth?"

"We have no identification on us, Abby! The captain would call the police and have us arrested for trespassing. I _really_ don't want to see Gibbs' face when he comes to bail us out." He paused, thought, and then added, _"If_ he does."

"Hmm, good point." They entered the accommodations block and found stairs immediately before them. Down seemed a safer direction than up. Quietly they went down the stairs; found a small, dark storage room with just enough free room for the two of them, and settled in there, close together in a small spot.

- - - - -

The room was warm and stuffy; despite their attempts to do otherwise, they fell asleep, leaning against each other. Abby dreamed that she was on a water park ride, sliding down a ramp in a raft, feeling the "waves" slap the raft while she laughed...She woke up, not laughing. _"Tim!"_ he hissed, shaking his shoulder. _"Wake up!_ We're_ underway!"_

"_Mmmm...wha?_ That's impossible, Abbs. It's only...oh, hell. _6 p.m.?"_ He stared at his watch; challenged it to stop lying.

She was trembling. "I don't want to go anywhere, Tim. I really don't. I just want to go back to my lab and do Abby-labby things. They've probably, no, _certainly, _missed us today at work, and—_Tim! _That's _it!_ They must be looking for us! They'll find us soon, and then, and then­—"

"Abby." He pulled her close. "I don't think they'll be looking for us _here._ We've got to get out of this jam ourselves. And we can do it; I'm sure of that." He surprised himself with how calm his voice was. Also a surprise was that he wasn't at all seasick, even though the ship rocked faintly. _Must be because there's too much at stake here. I can't, I _won't_ let myself be seasick. Well, that's one less thing to worry about._

The room's door swung open. A tall, thin man exclaimed in some unfamiliar language at seeing them. The man pulled out his cell phone and spoke rapidly into it.

"I think we're going to meet the captain," Abby said, tightly. "Isn't that usually a privilege on ships? To sit at the captain's table?"

"That's only on cruise ships. And this is not the QE II."

"Well, whose fault is _that_, Tim?" she said. "Next time you lead me to the docks, you'd better pick a better ship!" She winked at him.

_She must be more optimistic about a meeting with the captain than I am,_ he thought. _Things can only get worse_...

- - - - -

The captain was a balding, sour-looking man, who spoke with a slight accent. _Dutch?_ Tim wondered. In his small office, the captain didn't invite them to sit; and the man who'd found them stood behind them, fingering a long knife. "I am Henrick Roemer, captain of the _Marie Persephone_. I don't care who _you_ are; I want to know why you have stowed away on my ship!"

"It wasn't intentional," Tim said. "We were...hiding from someone who wanted to harm us. We hid in a cargo container and got loaded onto your ship. If you can just let us make a phone call..."

"_You dared interfere with my cargo?!"_ Roemer was half standing now.

"Not intentionally," Tim repeated, keeping his temper in check. "We left everything the way we found it." _Not our fault that Clarice opened a box of pillows. _"So if we could..."

"_No!_ No phone calls! Too expensive while out at sea!...How much money do you have on you?"

_So it's going to be like that, is it?_ "Uh, none at the moment. But when we get off here we can wire you..."

Roemer came forward, looked Abby up and down. Her eyes turned to ice at his hungry looks. "Hmm," Roemer said, "perhaps we could, ah, make a deal..."

"You should be aware, buster, that every tattoo I've acquired represents another social disease," Abby spat at him. He retreated quickly.

"Just let us off the ship at the next port," Tim urged quietly. "Then we'll be out of your hair."

"The next port is Dunkerque, in France," Roemer snarled. "I suppose I have to keep you until then. You can have your, ah, _quarters_ back until we dock. Jan!" He motioned to the man with the knife, who escorted them back below.

Tim remembered Abby's comment. "_Social disease? _The nuns surely didn't teach you _that_..._!"_

"Not those exact words..." The door to the storage room closed behind them, and her voice became small. "Tim? How long would it take this ship to get to France?

"If that's really the next port, then I'd guess about a week."

"_A week!_ And that bastard took our _M&Ms!"_

She leaned on him, crying. He patted her, reasonably certain that this was about more than M&Ms. "I'm sure we'll find good chocolate in France," he said. _Though how we'll pay for that, or anything else, when we get there, I don't know_...

- - - - -

Back at Washington, Ensign Howell arrived at the docks and searched for container M904, and slumped on finding the spot vacant. _Could they, would they have actually let themselves be loaded onto a ship?!_

It took several hours of phone calls and net research to track it, but finally he had his answer: Container M904 had been loaded onto the _Marie Persephone,_ flying a Liberian flag and bound for France, Germany, and Russia, at 2:51 p.m. The ship had set sail at 5:58 p.m.

It wasn't until the next day that he located a phone number for the ship. "My name is Howell, Captain. I believe you have two stowaways on board; a man and a woman...?"

"And if I do, how does that interest you? Describe them."

Howell did so, and was gleeful at the captain's confirmation. "You're bound for France? I'll make it worth your while...let's say $10,000...if you'll hold them for me so I can pick them up at Dunkerque. No questions asked."

"I was not intending to ask any. $25,000, not a cent less."

"All right," said Howell, after quickly considering. It was worth it to stay out of prison, or, more likely, death row. "Don't let them escape. And they must be alive." _For there was something missing_...

"For $25,000, I will _personally_ deliver their rations of bread and water," the captain chuckled. "We dock at Dunkerque on 12th September."

- - - - -

Roemer and Jan motioned Tim and Abby out of the storeroom. "Out of the goodness of my heart, as you would say, I am giving you better lodgings," Roemer told them, with no goodness apparent in him. "Follow me."

He lead them up two flights of stairs, to a small, vacant suite. It did seem much nicer than the storage room. Tim looked about the room: a tiny parlor in the front, with a minifridge, a microwave, a couch, and a TV with DVD player. Visible through an open door was a bed and a bathroom. "My brother's suite, when he travels with us. Someone has just paid your way, so you can use it." Roemer laughed. "Your only problem is that we will lock you in."

"What's this all about, Roemer?" Tim asked, feeling the tension growing.

"You have a, ah friend, named Howell? He's asked me to keep you safe until he can meet you at Dunkerque." The shock on their faces was a great, cruel pleasure to him.

- - - - -

"So we know McGee and Abby were in that storage room off the alley," Ziva said, "based on the prints we found. Berkely's prints were on the door handle. Did she lock them in, or set them free?"

Tony leaned forward in his chair, watching his monitor, wishing he had some of Tim's skills at a time like this. "Got a match on some other prints on the door handle. Leon McNash, that suspected serial killer; whadayaknow? But he died last year. Also...c'mon, machine..." The IAFIS program obediently made a pinging noise at him. "One Walter Howell, Ensign, here at the Naval base."

"So go pick him up," Gibbs said, motioning Ziva to go along. He was grateful that Jenny had given them permission to not take on new cases, unless NCIS got backed up. He really, though, yearned to have someone to interrogate. Someone whose throat he could, in good conscience, jump down.

Tony called in a little while later. "Bad luck, boss. Howell's AWOL. He hasn't been seen since yesterday. Another ensign's AWOL as well, Howell's bud Aaron Finch."

Gibbs told them to talk to Howell's and Finch's superiors and their "peeps", and to then come on back. He hung up the phone, placing his head in his hands.

- - - - -

Based on Tony's and Ziva's talks with the base personnel, Gibbs soon joined his team at the docks. Two other ensigns reported that Howell had made a number of phone calls to the docks and to shipping companies the previous day, and said they weren't just saying this because they didn't like the SOB. Gibbs had doubts.

Three ships had left the docks yesterday: the _Neptune IV,_ the _Marie Persephone, _and the _Star of Osaka._ They called all three ships; the captains all said there was nothing amiss, and no new passengers. _It's like Abby and McGee have fallen off the face of the earth,_ Gibbs thought, his heart heavy.

But even more unpleasant news greeted him at NCIS. His phone rang as they walked in the door: Jenny, summoning him to her office at once; Ziva and Tony invited, too, if they were at hand.

Two unfamiliar men were there; one Army. Jenny made introductions, "Gentlemen, Special Agent Jethro Gibbs and his team, Ziva David and Tony DiNozzo. This is General Bradford Polk, and Senator Gryne, of the senate subcommittee of—"

"Yes, yes;" Gryne said impatiently. "Where are you hiding this _wunderkind_ McGee? I understand that he hasn't shown up for work in two days."

"We'd like to know where he is, too," Gibbs said mildly. His eyes flickered to Jenny's face, trying to read it; wondering how much he should say.

"Agent Gibbs, don't play games with us. NCIS has no right to hide a talent like McGee's. Director, you will turn him over to the Army _now,_ or face the consequences."

"_If you're trying to scare me, Senator, it's not working,"_ said Jenny, a panther in human form.

"I've told you; we don't know where he is," said Gibbs. "We're afraid someone's after him for some reason we don't understand."

The senator and the general exchanged long looks. Polk, an older man who now looked like he wished he'd retired all ready, frowned and said, "I was afraid something like this would happen. He's run. Any one of our enemies could pick him up, and national security could be at stake. We can't risk letting his talents fall into their hands."

_Oh, no; not _that_ "national security" argument again,_ Gibbs thought, but even he was stunned by Polk's next words.

The general pulled out his cell phone. "Salwicki? Yes, McGee's believed to be on the run. We'll have to go with plan 'C'. Find him, and shoot to kill."


	6. Pursuit

The haymaker punch was a missile as it flew, resulting in General Polk's tumble to the floor as the others cried out. _"You BASTARD!!" _Gibbs bellowed, not even feeling the sting in his fist where it had connected with the general's chin. _"You INhuman, SON of a bitch! DON'T_ you come in here and make noises about_ killing_ _one of my people!_ You make _any_ attempt, _whatsoever,_ and so help me, I will _hunt you_ to the corners of the earth and over the edges! _You kill him, and __nothing__ will save you from me. _Do I make myself _CLEAR, _General?!"

The general sat up, rubbing his jaw. "Crystal. You must be ex-Marine, Gibbs."

Gibbs nodded, his face still stormy. "And damn proud of it." He glanced, with loathing, at Senator Gryne. Clearly a softy and a coward; the senator had made no move to intervene.

"You do what you have to do. I'll do what _I_ have to do. You want to save your man's life, you find him, fast," said the general.

"Call off your sharpshooters!"

"I can't do that."

"_Call off your sharpshooters!"_ Gibbs' hand had landed on his own gun. He faintly heard Jenny's _"Jethro, don't!"_ but ignored it.

"Look, Gibbs, I understand that you want to save your man. And I don't know that I believe in this eidetics stuff. But if McGee isn't back here in... say, seven days, then my orders stand. And I don't much care what you do to me at my age, but you'll be going against the entire United States Army!"

Gibbs seized him by the collar. _"Get on the phone,"_ he growled. "I want to hear you say that the orders you gave to kill McGee have been postponed a week!"

The general already had his phone out. "Salwicki. Belay that immediate termination order on McGee. It's not to go into effect until..." he looked at his watch. "11 September, 1700 hours. Right." He pocketed the phone. "Satisfied?"

"For now," Gibbs said, releasing him.

"Find your man, Gibbs...or _we_ _will!"_

- - - - -

Gibbs and his team waited until the General and the Senator had left Jenny's office. They were not about to cede any ground to the invaders, figuratively or otherwise.

"Damn," Tony said. "Damn, that was impressive, boss."

"Wasn't trying to be impressive, DiNozzo. Just trying to save McGee's life." Gibbs was still glowing with anger. He couldn't remember having been this angry since…maybe not since Shannon and Kelly died.

"Well done, Jethro," Jenny said, quietly. She clearly meant it. "Well done, indeed. Now you all have your work cut out for you. I don't want to _think_ about what might happen if seven days comes around and we haven't found McGee..."

"We'll find him," Gibbs said. If ever there was a force of nature, right now Gibbs was it.

- - - - -

But the days dragged on with little useful information trickling in. The team checked and checked records of travel, credit card use, the works, working seven-day weeks, but nothing surfaced on either Howell or his pal Finch. The break loomed on the horizon on September 9th. _Two days, _Gibbs thought. _Only two days left, and we're still nowhere_... He glanced over at Tony; saw the agent was having another mini-breakdown of impending grief: shakes and head-in-hands. It'd clear up shortly, and Gibbs and Ziva politely, tacitly ignored these, but they were happening more frequently as the deadline approached.

Gibbs tapped his fingers, then on a thought, pulled out his phone. "Fornell? Gibbs. I need a favor..."

- - - - -

"Gibbs. This is your favor calling." FBI agent Tobias Fornell sounded downright cheerful when he called late the following afternoon.

"What d'you have? McGee? Abby?" Gibbs sprang up; causing Tony and Ziva to look up in surprise.

"Not them. But your ensigns, Howell and Finch. Our prototype passport-picture-reading program picked them up as they checked in for a flight at Dulles airport a little while ago. It matched the Navy IDs you sent me; they seem to be using false passports. The program matches submitted pictures to the pictures in either the new biometric passports with RFID chips, or even the former machine-readable passports. Howell's using the name John Rodgers; Finch, Ferris Abrams. Both are smartly using their actual dates of birth, so they won't get caught in a slip-up."

Gibbs wrote the fake names on a notepad and tossed it to Ziva with instructions to check the flights. "How long ago did they check in?"

"About two and a half hours ago. You may not be able to still catch them. Sorry; this is a prototype and not very fast yet at sending out alert messages."

"No match for McGee or Abby, though?"

"Sorry. I'll keep that search open, and let you know the moment anything turns up."

"Please do. You may have heard, we only have one day to go until the Army lets loose..."

Fornell heard the unease in Gibbs' voice. "I wouldn't worry too much. The Army has no better idea where McGee is than you do. One day is when the action _starts._ But McGee's bright enough to stay ahead of them. Still, you'd better get out there and find him quickly. Talk to you later." He hung up.

"John Rodgers and Ferris Abrams are on a Delta Airlines flight, operated by Air France," Ziva reported. It's a flight to Paris that just left at 4:55; five minutes ago. Gets in at 6:15 a.m."

"Are there any more flights out to Paris tonight, that we can still make?" Tony asked.

She looked doubtful; then brightened. "Continental, at 8:00. Change in Newark, gets in to Paris at 12:05 p.m." She glanced at Gibbs, who was already on the phone to Jenny. He nodded, indicating her approval. Cynthia would make the reservations.

"Let's go!" Gibbs directed. The team kept travel bags and duplicate passports at the agency for just such short-notice trips.

Jenny came running down the stairs. _A last minute change?_ Gibbs wondered. But no, she only said to them, "Bring Abby and McGee back safely." When they were out of sight, she sank into Gibbs' chair; spent. _They'll arrive in Paris on the eleventh. That's the day the Army can start taking aim. Dear God_...

- - - - -

September 10th was just another day at sea for Tim and Abby; another day in the confines of the small suite on the cargo ship. They'd played the half-dozen VCR tapes several times; played cards with a worn deck found in a drawer. They traded off on who slept on the bed and who got the couch. Sometimes when they were lethargic enough they shared the bed, but only for sleeping; Tim was too much in love with her to encourage sex for its own sake without passion, and Abby was too despondent to consider it.

"Two days," Abby moaned, "until that captain turns us over to Howell, and he kills us."

"No, don't think like that, Abby!" Stress, or maybe lack of chocolate, was clearly taking its toll on her. "We've got to pull a plan together! There's _always_ a way!"

"They taught you that in FLETC? That optimism?"

"Sort of. I was thinking of the Boy Scouts, though."

"Okaaaaaaayyy...So what's the plan?"

"Well..." He was on the spot, but a thought wandered his way and he grabbed it. "Let's suppose you had a craving, a _really strong _craving..."

- - - - -

Gibbs spent most of the two hours before boarding the flight to Paris on the phone. Jenny relayed that Howell and Finch had paid cash for their tickets—which didn't seem to be raising any alarms because the tickets weren't one-way. They were covering their tracks.

Jenny had also called NCIS' office in Marseilles to see what assistance they could render. The answer was next to none; half their staff was out with a virus, and it was hard to for them to spare someone to answer the phone. Certainly couldn't spare anyone to go to Paris, but they promised to notify the French officials to pick up Howell and Finch when their plane landed.

"First class! Woo hoo!" Tony exulted. "Has the agency finally recognized how special we are?"

"No, they've recognized that coach is sold out," said Gibbs. "Don't get too used to this; we'll probably come back in steerage."

Ziva and Tony sat next to each other on the plane; Gibbs across the aisle. After some time in the air, when Gibbs appeared to be dozing, Tony asked Ziva a question that had been on his mind for awhile. "Haven't you claimed to have a photographic memory? Like that thing you did once, recalling a whole map?"

She shrugged. "I may have claimed that, yes."

"But...?"

"It's not like McGee's memory, if that's what you're asking. From what he's said, he and I process memories differently. When I memorize something like a map, it's because I've trained myself to store individual data points. Then I pull them out of my memory, one by one, and reconstruct a map. I can't hold the memory for very long, though. And I don't 'see' the memory like a piece of paper, like he does...Right now, I'm wishing he had never discovered this talent."

Tony sighed. "You and me both."

- - - - -

When they landed in Paris the next day, the first thing Gibbs did was rent cell phones for the three of them at the airport since their own phones were useless in France. He called the Marseilles office, and swiftly hung up, swearing. "The police didn't pick up Howell and Finch. 'A miscommunication, so very sorry', they said."

"So what does this mean?" Tony said, dumbfounded. "Our suspects could be anywhere! And we need them to lead us to McGee and Abby!"

"But they're only six hours ahead of us," said Ziva. "There's more to France than just Paris. If they are traveling, chances are they're taking the train. France has an excellent rail system. There are three stations in Paris where the high-speed _Trains a Grande Vitesse_ service begins: the _Gare de Lyon,_ the _Gare Montparnasse,_ and the _Gare du Nord._ We could each take one station, and—"

"Hold on there, Ms. Polyglot. I know you speak French, but Gibbs and I—"

"How can you not know French?! Americans—!"

"We'll stay together," Gibbs said. "For the time being, anyway. Lead us, Ziva, _s'il vous plait." _

_- - - - -_

They hit pay dirt at the second station they visited, the _Gare du Nord. _The ticket seller recognized the photos of Howell and Finch; remembered that he had sold the rude, impatient _Americains _tickets to Dunkerque, in the far north. He shook his head, though, when shown pictures of Tim and Abby. He had not seen them.

The next train left at 2:28 p.m.; they would change in Lille Flanders and be in Dunkerque at 4:48; less than two and a half hours behind the ensigns. They were catching up.

"What's in Dunkerque, I wonder?" said Tony as the train zipped along at around 180 miles per hour. "I'm betting beautiful beaches and beautiful ladies on the beautiful beaches, but—"

"I don't think it has many beaches," said Ziva, "but it is an old seaport, and—"

"That's _it!"_ Gibbs said, slapping his copy of the _International Herald Tribune_ on his knee. "That's why Howell and Finch are going to Dunkerque! To meet the _Marie Persephone_ when it docks tomorrow!"

"McGee and Abby must be on board the ship!" said Ziva. "That explains how they got of the U.S. without passports!"

Tony shook his head. "They _can't_ be on board. The captain told me, when I called him, that he had no one on board except his crew..." He saw his team's faces. "Oh. He lied." He leaned his head toward Gibbs. "Go on, boss; take a whack. I deserve it."

Gibbs whacked Tony's head, not hard, with the newspaper. "McGee and Abby are probably being held prisoner. We'll find out when the boat is to dock tomorrow, and get there before Howell and Finch can do anything."

- - - - -

It was to be a 7:01 a.m. docking. Most of the sky was still a deep, satiny gray at 6:30; waiting for the sun to roll up and bring energizing light. Gibbs, Tony and Ziva huddled in the darker corners of the appointed _debarcadere_, where the _Marie Persephone_ would dock, unload, and take on more cargo.

"Split up; go see if you can find Howell and Finch," Gibbs whispered. "Call back if you do. Don't take chances. There are too few of us and too much at stake here."

They nodded, and hared off, away from the dock. Tony thought he saw something; perhaps just a youth on an early-morning jog. But that was the last thing he saw for awhile after the butt of a gun knocked him out cold.

His assailant swore as he rifled through Tony's wallet. "I was hoping for a simple robbery, but look! _NCIS_. They're onto us, Aaron. Either that or they're after the same thing we are."

"So what should we do with them?" Aaron Finch propped up Ziva's similarly unconscious body.


	7. Escape

_Docking day!_ For the last several days, Tim had done exercises in the small shipboard suite and had encouraged Abby to do the same, to be limber for their escape. Now September 12 was finally upon them; Dunkerque close at hand. Their clothes were nearly dry after being washed in the sink (for the second time in the journey)—_What I wouldn't give for a decent laundering!_ Abby thought. They again reviewed Tim's plan. At least they had been decently fed on the trip; probably not due to benevolence on the captain's part, but rather a need to get rid of excess perishable food. A chilling thought was that Howell might want them in good shape for—what?

The captain came for them at 6:45 a.m., as they were finishing breakfast. "Come with me now, you two; I cannot be fetching you later while we are preparing to dock. You'll wait on the deck for that man."

The sky was becoming light as they went out onto the deck; the air cool and salty. The Flemish-flavored city of Dunkeque appeared in the distance as a dusky-colored tableau. Tim and Abby were left to their own devices, for where could they go? Their eyes met, and they exchanged a small nod.

As the ship prepared to dock, Abby slipped her hand into Tim's. They edged closer to the stacked containers, and when the captain's back was turned, slipped around a corner. Evidently watching prisoners was not something the captain did every trip.

The ship rocked slightly as the engines were turned off and waves lapped it. "Hey! You come back here!" they heard Roemer call.

"Plan B," Tim mumbled, and they sprinted for the side of the ship. Somewhere along the side there was sure to be a pilot ladder or similar structure that would take them down to dock level.

"_There!" _Abby spotted a pair of stanchions standing about mid-ship. They ran...and saw Howell and Finch coming up the ladder. Tim and Abby spun to a halt; ducked in a narrow aisle between stacks of containers, wincing as the shadow of the enormous cargo crane swung over them.

Unfortunately, Roemer knew his ship well, and he and his assistant Jan swiftly blocked the ends of their aisle. "You are not getting out of here...unless _you_ have $25,000," Roemer said with a laugh.

"Captain? I'm Howell," came a voice. "Where are my—"

"Plan A," Abby said quietly. She and Tim waited quietly until Howell and the other guy—they knew his name only as Aaron, as Howell called him—came into view. _"Oh!"_ she cried, doubling over. "I can't—I need my _medication!_ Please, Captain! _Oooooh!! _I crave; I crave..."

"She's sick!" Tim played along. "Please. She's been without her medicine for a week! You took it from her!"

Roemer looked baffled. "I—I did not know. You never said—"

_Bingo,_ thought Tim. _He's a creep, but with old-fashioned gallentry. _

"Is there anything we might have that could, ah, substitute until you can get medicine?"

"_Chocolate,"_ she moaned, holding her stomach, now kneeling on one knee, while Tim rubbed her back, looking very concerned. "I never travel without it! The M&Ms..."

Roemer frowned. "Dutch chocolate is _far _superior to your American M&Ms. Jan, get the good chocolate. Mister Howell, if you will come with me, we will arrange for the exchange. Come, now, please. I must keep to my schedule!"

Howell eyed Abby and Tim, then followed the captain, as did Aaron. As soon as they were out of sight, Abby's moans ceased, and she and Tim ran for the stanchions. _"Hey!"_ they heard a cry behind them; didn't turn to look.

Cargo container ships did not ride very high in the water. The pilot ladder mounted on the ship's hull was only about nine feet in length. Tim gestured to Abby to go first down the ladder; he quickly followed her and then jumped the remaining four feet. "_Go! Go!"_

"_Stop!!"_ That was definitely Howell's voice. Gunshots rang..._How in the world did he get on a plane with a gun? Or get one here? _Tim wondered, but that didn't slow down his running. He cupped Abby's elbow with his hand, moving her. _I wonder if...Aha!_

Dockyard police came to attention; pointing, phoning, running toward the ship. Tim glanced over his shoulder, saw Howell coming down the pilot ladder; running. _Disposed of the gun, or willing to risk it?_

"_Stop him! Please!"_ Abby begged curious early-morning onlookers. "He is my ex-husband—he won't accept that I have found a _new love!"_ For emphasis, she grabbed Tim's arm and looked distressed. Immediately several men (and a few women) moved in to cut off Howell's path.

"Down this way," Tim pulled her down a narrow lane, afraid she was enjoying all this acting a tad too much. A door opened in an alley as they ran by. _No, not that again!_ But Abby jerked to a halt. This was a much friendlier door; the back door to a bakery.

"Come on!" she whispered. "I don't think he'll look for us here. This isn't a public entrance; it looks like their storeroom..."

"We could be arrested for trespassing!" he hissed, nonetheless following her quietly inside.

"If we're discovered, we'll buy something."

"_Buy_ something?! With _what?_ Or were you intending to go back to Howell and demand that he give back the money he stole from us?!"

"Demanding is so rude. I would ask him nicely. If he put that awful gun away. No, I have, uh, other resources..." She pulled off a boot and unscrewed the heel. Tim's eyes popped as she pushed open a secret compartment and pulled out a couple of crisply folded bills. "I have $200 here. 'Mad money', the nuns called it."

"_Abby!"_

"_Shhhh. _And I should tell you, there might be another reason why Howell is after us..." She opened another compartment in the heel, and dropped in her hand two old, beautiful rings with large stones.

"Are those part of the Blaineville collection jewels?" Tim was stunned by being close to something suitably termed 'priceless'.

"Well, once I had them, I wasn't going to give them _back_, now was I?"

Tim sighed. "Well, keep them safe. If we need to, we could ransom ourselves out of a tight spot."

He wasn't serious, but Abby gave him a hard look. "These jewels are going back to the Smithsonian, buster! There is _nothing else_ that could make me give them up!"

He grinned and hugged her with one arm, but it took her a few minutes to get her ire down and relax against him.

- - - - -

The park he was in spun about Tony as if it had set to sea in a boat with a broken rudder. "Can you stand, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked, pulling him to his feet.

"Yeah," Tony said, gingerly touching his sore head, and struggling to find balance. "Who hit me? A robber?"

"The same person who hit me, I'm sure," said Ziva, sitting on the grass and looking a little pale. "I was not robbed. I don't understand what happened."

"I came looking for you two out when you didn't answer your phones," said Gibbs. "Howell may have spotted you."

"What time is it?! The ship...?"

"Over there at its dock. Police have prevented it from leaving. Shots were fired from it—from the description I got, the gunman sounds like Howell. He got away."

Tony swallowed. "McGee and Abby?"

"I showed the captain their pictures before the police took him away. He freely admitted they were on board." He looked off in the distance. "Witnesses say they ran...and I have no idea where they are now."

Ziva sighed, as did Tony. "Thank God, though. They're alive."

"They'll want to put some distance between Howell and themselves," Ziva guessed. "Probably not a lot; that would be too obvious. There's a city near here, Lille. We passed it on the train."

"Good a choice as any," said Gibbs. "Let's sweep the city first, and if nothing comes up by nightfall, we'll go to Lille."

He called the Director to update her. "What good news that they're alive, Jethro," she said. "But there's bad news, too. The Army paid me another visit. They're threatening NCIS with all sorts of legal entanglements. I'll hold them off as long as I can, Jethro, but they're likely to find out pretty quick that your team has gone to France...and that's where they'll come looking for McGee..."

- - - - -

They stayed very quiet, and with a dollop of sheer luck, no one came to the stockroom where Tim and Abby dozed. When dusk came, they crept out, sticking to the shadows.

"First thing we have to do," Tim said, "is make ourselves not so obvious targets." They found a _pharmacie_ and shopped in the hair color aisle. "Black for you," Abby said, without hesitation, picking up a box of man's _noir_ hair dye. "But mine will be harder. Black hair is hard to color without a lot of peroxide."

Tim waved a box of _henne_ color at her. "Your hair probably won't turn auburn, but even a strong reddish tint will make you look a lot different. You'll see."

They also bought auburn and black eyebrow pencils, though Tim choked a bit. But mascara?! Tim was adamant in refusing it; pushing her hand with the tube away. She gazed at his face, thinking he had such nice eyelashes anyway, even if they were brown, but she didn't voice that. "Well, with luck no one will notice."

Their purchases were eating into Abby's money too much, but Tim insisted she buy a scarf to cover her distinctive spider web neck tattoo. It would probably work if she wore her hair down. They also bought the cheapest, casual clothes they could find, so they'd have a change, and a small duffel bag to carry their simple belongings.

Of course there was no money to spare for a hotel. Night had now fallen, and they found an elementary school nearby; all dark. Tim picked the lock quickly, and soon they were in a bathroom, coloring their hair in the sinks.

Presently they were looking at two seemingly new people in the mirror. Abby's green eyes seemed soft and warm in her reddish-toned hair. She stuffed the elastics that had held her ponytails in place in her pockets, and made faces at herself in the mirror.

But Tim, she thought, was impressive. "I look like my father," he said, making his own faces. "All I need is an S-shaped curl on my forehead, glasses, and to change my eyes to blue..."

"So what's next, black-haired man?" she said, about to dry her hair under the hand dryer. "We hide out here in Dunkerque? Does France have an NCIS station? They could help us."

"No to the first! We put as much distance as we can between us and Howell and Aaron. Let's see in the morning how much train tickets to Paris cost. If we have to hide out, it's better to do it in a big city. And the NCIS office in France is in Marseille, clear on the other side of the country. We'll call them in the morning." He hugged her; kissed her damp forehead. "This will all be over soon, and we'll be home again..."


	8. Travel

Abby started awake from her rough "bed" on the school bathroom floor, where a wad of paper towels had been her pillow. She jumped at the sight of a black-haired man lying next to her, then realized that she knew him; knew him well, albeit in a different color spectrum. "Tim! _Wake up!_ We've got to get going! School urchins could be coming in anytime!"

He grunted awake, and did a similar double-take on seeing her auburn tresses. He sat up, then seized her waving hand and kissed it. "I don't recall putting in an order for sea urchins. Are _Echinoidea_really good to eat for breakfast?"

"No, silly. Well, I can't say that for sure, I've never eaten one. But I said _school _urchins. Kiddles, rugrats, micro-humans, _enfants_. I think that's the French word."

"Gotcha. It's barely 6, though; we have time." He leaned forward and kissed her. Their shared adventure had drawn him even closer to her, emotionally, now that their immediate fear of doom had passed. He then leaned back and looked pensive. "We need to prioritize. We have little money. We have no proof of our identities. We have to determine what we do next."

She was staring at his chin, he noticed. He wrinkled his now-dark eyebrows questioningly. Her soft hand moved slowly over his cheeks; over his beard stubble. "Brown beard and black hair aren't going to mix, mountain man. You're going to have to shave, and every day, until we're out of this fix."

"Well, I hope that won't be long, but you're right. Dang; I hate spending money on a razor, though. We're so tight on cash as it is. But I guess it can't be helped."

"We helped ourselves to the toothbrushes and toothpaste that were on the ship's suite. You should have taken the electric razor."

"No, I couldn't bring myself to steal. It's not in me. I don't consider taking the toothbrushes stealing; who'd want to reuse them? Ugh! Anyway...we've got to check on train tickets. Our number one priority right now is staying safe." He meant, keeping _her_ safe, but he wasn't going to say that out loud.

"There are other priorities, Tim," she said, catching his eye. "We have to eat. We have to call someone; let them know where we are. It would be cheapest to call the NCIS office in Marseilles and let them call HQ. We need to contact the American embassy about getting replacement passports."

"Working backwards: We can't prove we are who we say we are. The American embassy isn't going to issue new passports on our say-so. It'd be easier getting on another cargo container ship heading back to Washington."

"Har, har. I'll assume that was a joke."

He grinned and tugged a lock of the reddish hair. It wasn't as natural a move as tugging a ponytail or pigtail. "We sneak on and off, and that solves the passport issue. Anyway...On your second point, I'm not so concerned about calling NCIS on my behalf; I'm sure I've been fired in absentia, since I never showed up for my new job at Intel; my job that started 8 days ago. Wouldn't be surprised if you've lost your job, too. Sorry." He rubbed her back.

"I never thought I'd feel so...expendable," she said, the realization just hitting her. "You're right; surely we'll both be job-hunting. Eh, what am I worried about? Surely there are..._hundreds_ of places looking for Goth forensic scientists. Who've been recently fired."

"Just like there are probably, oh, as many as _three_ agencies looking for slightly-used special agents. Who've been recently fired."

"Oh, Tim; we're a pair, aren't we?" she said, putting her arm around his waist. "But with your computer skills and your sheer brilliance, you could get work anywhere!"

"You're pretty brilliant, yourself. And pretty, as well. Who wouldn't hire you? As to your first point, I'm not particularly hungry, but we can find a _baguette_ or something for you."

"Oh, no. Don't you go all macho on me. If _I_ eat something, Timothy; _you'll_ eat something, too."

He hooted. "I wish I had a tape recorder! Someone from NCIS called me _macho!_ Tony would never believe it!"

"You're changing the subject. No heroics, Tim. We're in this together. And I'm _not_ going to allow you to suffer, on my part..." She pulled him close for a kiss, and they almost forgot what their goals were.

- - - - -

After the purchase of an inexpensive razor, the cost of which was still enough to make Tim sigh, they headed for the train station, feeling that the need to check timetables trumped everything else. The next train heading for Paris—though they had to change trains in the nearby city of Lille—left at 11:57 a.m. The Paris-bound train left Lille at 1 o'clock. The cheapest tickets, for economy-restricted second class, were 55 euros each. "That's um, just over $75 at .73 euros per dollar, as the bank sign over there says. Figure in a few points for exchange costs and it's probably going to cost us $80 each. Can we do that?"

"Barely," she whispered. "That'll leave us with about $14."

"Then we'll do it," he said, kissing the top of her head and thinking in passing that he'd been kissing her a lot lately. _Not that there's _anything _wrong with that_..."And we've got scads of time, so let's price _baguettes._ One each, with a little honey or cheese or something, will keep us full for a long time."

"It'll fill me up for the day, I'm sure," she said, smiling.

- - - - -

Reluctantly, they agreed that they'd have to call NCIS-Marseilles.They'd talk themselves blue in the face if they had to, but NCIS, even if it was just their _former_ employer, _should_ accept a cry for help. Even if it was nothing more than arranging to mail their final paychecks to France.

The _minitel_ system at the payphone in the post office proved easy to figure out. It was a computer system on a small screen that allowed them to find the number. Entering the phone symbol and 3611, as instructed, allowed them to search by name and then town. Tim stared at the displayed ten-digit number for a few seconds; closed his eyes and "saw" it written on the screen as an eidetic image. He would not forget it.

The phone card, or _telecarte,_ was another unfortunate expense of a few dollars. They bought the lowest-unit one available. Tim dialed the NCIS-Marseilles number easily from memory now. The phone rang and rang and rang. When he hung up, the phone card came out of the phone, the screen of the phone indicating no charge for the non-answered call.

"How much would it cost for us to call the U.S.?" Abby asked, holding her breath.

"I don't know, but I doubt we can afford it," he said, carefully keeping his voice calm. "Well, the train should be leaving soon. Let's go to the station."

- - - - -

Howell and Finch, at that moment, were also headed for the same train station, having bought their first class tickets for Paris the previous evening. "I'm _positive_ McGee and the girl would have skipped for Paris," Howell said angrily. "They'll hide, or else get NCIS to wire them money and be on the next flight back to D.C. We'll have to try to catch up with them. They _can't_ get away, based on what they know."

"And that witch girl must have the missing two rings. We've gotta get them back."

"Oh, I haven't forgotten. We'll make her pay for swiping those! But while we're in Paris, I have another little job in mind that we can do..."

- - - - -

Shortly before 1 o'clock, Gibbs and his team waited on the train station platform in Lille. Their searches of Dunkerque and Lille had turned up nothing, despite their asking practically anyone they could find awake until midnight if they'd seen Tim and Abby. Only a shopkeeper at a _pharmacie_ in Dunkerque had; and the easily-agitated woman couldn't remember what they'd bought, much less what they'd said or where they went. So, despite their misgivings of what _they_ themselves would do if they were in Tim and Abby's shoes, they set off for Paris, where at least the face-to-face interactions with everyone from the government to the American embassy should be more fruitful then they might be over the phone.

Gibbs called the Director; updated her. "I was just about to call you, Jethro," Jenny said. "The Army found you three on flight lists to Paris. Fornell got the word, and passed it on to me."

Passing a hand over his eyes, Gibbs said, "Well, I suppose it was only a matter of time."

"You really think you can find McGee and Abby in Paris, a city that big? Assuming that's where they've gone?"

"I don't know," he said, sounding resigned. "But we've got to try."

"Of course." She knew better to to give him a pep talk; they both knew the probabilities.

He rejoined Tony and Ziva on the platform as the train pulled in from the trainyard. Across the platform, the train from Dunkerque pulled in; its passengers spilling out like freed bees from a hive; some heading for the train for Paris.


	9. Arriving in Paris

Three men and one woman, members of two different Army Rangers Spec Ops units, were brought together to form two sniper teams for this mission. Their assignment: to take out an American, NCIS agent Timothy McGee, the rogue genius with some amazing, unspecified mental talent that could be disastrous if he went to any of the U.S.'s enemies.

_Go to France,_ these four were instructed, _and wait for orders. _It had been over 60 years since the U.S. Army was stationed in France, and any such movements into the country would be disavowed; never to have happened. The Army INSCOM would provide the background intelligence. When found, McGee's location would be relayed, and the snipers could move in. No matter what, he could not be permitted to go over to any other side; willingly or not.

- - - - -

Gibbs and his team boarded the _TGV_ train in Lille in second class; comfortable seats in a compartment without the first class amenities, but who needed them for a trip that would take little more than an hour? They closed the compartment door and paid little attention to the people boarding who passed by in the aisle, seeking seats: two elderly, laughing men; a gaggle of boistrous teenagers, perhaps skipping school; a young couple who kept stopping to bill and coo. They missed seeing another young couple, a black-haired man and a henna-haired woman, who had found two spaces in a compartment two doors before theirs.

"I've spent more hours in trains in the last few days than I have in my whole life." Tony grumped with exaggeration.

Ziva rolled her eyes. "Imagine the pain of the people who have to travel with you."

"Hey, you are free to take a seat in another compartment, Zee-va."

"No, thanks. Gibbs pays me to annoy you and keep you out of his hair. I don't want to give up that bonus." She smiled in satisfaction and Tony glared at her.

Ignoring them, Gibbs phoned the Marseilles office; pleased to get them on the first ring. "Morrison, this is Gibbs. Any word at all on the Army moving in?"

"The Army isn't talking to us about this one, Gibbs. No surprise, I suppose. But we have feelers out; we have a lot of contacts that I'm sure they don't have, because these are people we work with a lot. So I have hopes. We'll notify you as soon as we hear anything."

"And McGee and Ab—Sciuto haven't contacted you yet?"

"I would have called you immediately if they had. But it's been hell here, and we haven't always gotten to the phone before it stops ringing."

"Understood. Thanks, Morrison."

Unfolding a map of Paris, Tony grinned and pointed at the numerous circles with the solitary letter 'M'. "Look, Ziva! They've marked all the McDonald's! I'll be more than ready for lunch when we get off."

Ziva gave him a pained look. "And how convenient that each is a _Metro_ station, as well. Don't you ever stop joking, Tony?"

"Not unless I faint from hunger...I'm at my worst at joking when I'm unconscious."

"Something to keep in mind, then. You: unconscious equals You: not joking. Hmmm..." She thought about this, smiled at whatever she was thinking, and ignored his glare once again.

- - - - -

The gentle rocking of the high-speed train lulled Abby to sleep, her head dropping onto Tim's shoulder. In the compartment, two businessmen sat opposite them; one reading a newspaper and the other quickly clacking on a laptop. Tim put his arm around Abby, and she sighed a little in her sleep and snuggled in a little closer.

He gazed idly at the map of France with the _SNCF_ route system, posted on the compartment wall, and silently read off the stops listed. Beside it was a map of greater Paris, with the stops of the commuter railroad, the _RER_, marked; he let his eyes land on each stop in turn. He was aware that now these would always be in his memory. _Just how much info can my memory hold?!_ Biting back a sigh, he wished he understood more of how his eidetic memory worked.

_If I hadn't been fired from NCIS_..._and I'm sure I must have been; we didn't leave under any circumstances that they would have recognized as suspicious, or leave any clues to our whereabouts, and I'm sure I made it plain that I didn't want to go to Intel._

_But if I hadn't gotten into this mess_..._I wonder what they would have done with my memory? Have me memorize data? But we capture all that on computers. Go along in the field, create maps of crime scenes? Maybe, but cameras do pretty well there. Pull up two unrelated sheets of data and compare them? Maybe, but a good computer program could do that as well. Then, what's left? Well, who knows?_

_Doesn't matter much if I've been fired._

He remembered a running gag from a humorous comic book series he'd followed ten or so years ago. Superheroes on this less-than-ideal superhero team would think, when, inevitably, they were rankled by their incompetent or clownish teammates, "I wonder if the _Teen Titans_ are hiring?" To that, Tim added, for his own use, _the FBI_..._the CIA_..._the NSA_..._Maybe I could do Tony's career backwards and be a cop. Might not be so bad; I'd still be helping people_..._Or I could go back to school and get my doctorate; I really should do that, anyway_..._I'd love going back to MIT_..._I could give up law enforcement; just write or do something with computers_...

_Admit it, Tim; you're terrified at being unemployed, and you know you probably can't collect unemployment because you were fired. And admit also that you're embarrassed as hell at being fired from your job; even if it wasn't your fault._

_There must have been _something_ I could have done to prevent all this from happening. Yeah. Like never having remembered the Director's private phone number. If only I'd remembered any other phone number_...

The conductor came down the aisle, her booming voice carrying through the closed compartment doors. _"Paris! Paris!"_

Abby stirred; lifted her head from his shoulder. "We're there?"

"We're there."

"Now what?"

Tim remained seated; waited until the other two men had left the compartment. "In the station, there's probably a detailed map of Paris, with major streets and attractions posted. I need to see it."

"To memorize the city?" she asked with arched brows; too quick by half. "Tim, what you're saying is impossible. You can't..."

"If it's impossible, that means I just have to try a little harder," he said, keeping his temper. "I can do this, Abbs." While they were arguing, they didn't notice a threesome that they would no doubt recognize go by in the aisle.

"_Tim!"_ she said loudly, causing the brown-haired man at the back of the procession, which had now passed by their compartment, to turn back for a moment at the sound, then shrug and move on.

"Tim, please give up this charade! You have a _good_ memory; you've proven that. You've worked hard at improving your memory, and it shows. But I think they've _brainwashed_ you, Tim. They've tricked you into believing that you have this _power_—"

"_Superman_ has _powers_. _Batman_ has _abilities_. I have an _ability_."

"I would have pictured you more as the noble Superman type rather than Batman, but stop distracting me! You've been told over and over that you have this—_ability_, and now you believe it."

"Come on; we'd better get off before they send us back to Lille. Abby, I've shown I can recall amazing lists!"

"Oh, Tim; I don't want to fight with you," she sighed, picking up the small duffel bag. "Let's go find your map."

- - - - -

Having done so, they peeled off a little of their precious, remaining money for two _Metro_ tickets at 1.50 Euros each. This would get them to central Paris, where they could plan what to do next. Tim silently worried about the coming of night. _Where will we stay, that's safe? I don't want to keep breaking into buildings, but I will if that's the only way_...

They got off at the _Champs Elysees/Clemenceau_ stop; the closest station to the American embassy at number 2, Avenue Gabriel. Tim didn't really think the embassy would help them, but Abby was adamant on trying, so he went along with her on it.

"To replace lost passports, you must present proof of your identity: drivers license, birth certificate, and a copy of the missing passport or an expired passport," said the man at the embassy passports counter. "Failing that, present in person an American with proper ID who can vouch to your identity. You'll also need a copy of the police report you submitted outlining the loss or theft of the passports, and two new passport-sized photos. If you need passports immediately, you will need to show your return plane tickets to the States; otherwise your passports will be mailed to you. Also fill out forms DS-11 and DS-0064; here are copies. Thank you, and have a nice day."

Tim and Abby left, stunned. He held her close with one arm and they veered into the adjacent parks, _Les Jardins des Champs-Elysees,_ with their Belle Epoque pavillions. Abby fought against tears as they gazed at the beautiful, ornate 19th century buildings. "It wouldn't be too bad, you know," she said, haltingly, "if we had to _stay_ here. It's such a lovely city."

He kissed her, lightly. "It _is_ beautiful. And the weather's delightful. But we'll get out of here somehow."

"Let's try calling NCIS-Marseilles again."

He nodded and they found a pay phone. The phone rang five times, and just as Tim was about to give up, a harried sounding voice answered. "Good afternoon, _Bonjour,_ this is NCIS-Marseilles. How may I direct your call?"

Tim had almost dropped the receiver in surprise. "Well, I, I, hope you can! Listen; we're two NCIS employees—" he crossed his fingers at the small lie, hoping it would bring a better response. "—and we're stranded in Paris and we need help. We need to get in touch with HQ. Can you—"

"One moment; I'll transfer you to Personnel." The man who had answered the phone dialed the appropriate extension, and then leaned back, shaking his head. _Must be a full moon. Let Personnel deal with the nutcases._

Tim heard the phone ring again, over and over. He shook his head, and was saying to Abby, "We were _that close_," when he heard a new voice on the other end. "Ronnie Aikens, Personnel..."

"Yes! Ms. Aikens! We need help, my, uh, friend and I. We're two NCIS employees at HQ and we're stranded in Paris. It's a _really_ long story. We're almost out of cash, and we have no IDs, and we need to get word back to HQ—"

Something clicked in Aiken's brain. _What was it Morrison had said yesterday? _She glanced up. Morrison, her boss, was standing at the window about 15 feet away, looking out on the nice day and the ships at harbor. Covering the mouthpiece, she called out, "Boss! You were looking for two missing employees from HQ?"

He turned swiftly. "Got their names?"

"What's your name, sir?" she asked Tim.

"My name is McGee, and I'm here with Abby—"

Again she covered the mouthpiece. "McGee and—"

"That's the ones! Transfer it to my office, please, Ronnie." He sprinted out the door.

Aikens turned back to the phone. "Hold on, sir; I'll transfer you to the boss."

Tim heard the phone ring twice, and then abruptly cut out. The _telecarte_ was ejected from the phone; its minutes used up.

Abby clung to Tim, and this time she didn't hold back her tears.

- - - - -

"You've located them?! Where are they?!" Gibbs wished he could jump into his phone and get the answer faster.

"I'm not entirely sure," said Morrison. "It sounded like their phone got cut off before I could talk to them. Probably their phone card minutes ran out. My personnel officer took the call; spoke to a man. He gave his name as McGee and said the person with him was named Abby. They're almost broke and have no IDs and wanted to get in touch with HQ."

"And they didn't say where they were? Morrison, we're not the only people looking for them, you know! The Army, and possibly those renegade ensigns—"

"I know, and I'm sorry. _But—_while they didn't give their location, they _were_ on the line altogether long enough for us to trace the call afterwards. They were calling from a payphone at the _Jardins des Champs-Elysees,_ which is right near the American Embassy."

"Thanks! Thanks." Gibbs eyed his team. "I think we're about two miles from there. DiNozzo, get us a taxi!"

- - - - -

"It's not like things can get too much worse," Tim said, while attempting to kiss her tears away."

"How do you know? In my life, every time I think that, things _always_ get worse! And I don't even have my Bert here to hug! And why are _you_ always the one to look out for _me_?" Abby said, unable to stop crying. "I've always been able to take care of myself."

"Tell you what. Next go-around, you can take care of me. Deal?"

"Deal."

"I thought I recognized those voices. But you've changed your appearances; how very clever."

Tim and Abby turned, and gasped.

"Come with us, now. I know how you can help us." Howell motioned with his gun, and they got in the nearby car.


	10. Money

Howell started the car up. Tim and Abby, in the back seat, exchanged quick glances. The car doors weren't locked! _How in the world did these morons get this far?!_ Tim wondered. As they came to a red light, Tim announced, "I need a pit stop. If you don't mind."

"We _do_ mind, McGee. The four of us have a date at the Louvre, in the _Galerie d'Apollon,_ where they keep the crown jewels."

"Jewels, jewels, jewels!" said Abby. "You already have… more than you can wear," she added archly, earning a snarl from the two ensigns. "So is jewel theft is like a fallback job for you? In case the Navy job doesn't work out?" They only glared at her.

"You're going to try to steal the jewels, from what's probably one of the most alarmed cases in the world, in broad daylight?" Tim said incredulously.

Howell shrugged. "Worked at the Smithsonian. Worked at other places for me. Every system has its weakness. Give me a daytime heist over a nighttime one with extra alarms any day."

The light changed to green. Tim and Abby sprang out of the car and ran, he bounding behind the car in her direction, hopping between cars lined up at the light that were eager to go. He only stopped long enough to kick in a taillight of Howell's car; the red plastic shattering to the street. Howell couldn't get the window down fast enough to fire, and cars all around honked in fury; edging toward him in minor menace to get him moving.

Tim and Abby disappeared into a grove of trees in the Tuileries gardens, and there stopped; out of sight of the road. "Are those guys for real?" Abby laughed, while panting. "Is there a clown school giving out degrees in theft?"

"We should call the police; tell them about the planned heist…You're limping. What happened?"

"Nothing. I felt my ankle turn once. I can hardly feel it."

"Well, take off your boot and let me see it."

She limped to a bench, waving away Tim's offer of support, and there pulled off her boot. Tim felt carefully around the ankle; it was a little red, but not swelling.

"What's the diagnosis?"

_You have a lovely foot._ "It'll be fine in the morning. I would have thought that the jewels you have in the other boot's heel would have injured that foot, instead. You're not carrying a counterweight in this heel?"

"No, I—" She then gasped, and scrabbled for the boot she'd taken off. "Tim! Give me the boot! _Hurry!"_ She seized it; tugged at the heel. _"I'm so stupid! I'm so stupid!!"_ Within a moment she'd opened the heel, and removed a card; held it up to the leaf-filtered sunlight, where its metallic coloring glowed. It was clearly a credit card.

"Oh, Tim, you must _hate_ me!" she said, clinging to him while his eyes were still huge. "I swear I'd totally forgotten I had this in here!! I put it here when I got it, in case of emergency—"

He stopped her wailing with a kiss. "It's okay; it's okay. You _did_ activate it, didn't you?"

"Yes, of course!"

"And do you remember the PIN number?"

"Well, let's see. It was issued in November, so I used your birthday as the PIN. I always do that with my cards; use people's birthdays. Oh, my stars and little comets! Finally, something is going _RIGHT!"_

"Let's get to an ATM and get some cash. Of course, I'll pay you back. Do you remember what your daily withdrawal limit is?"

"Nope. We'll find out!"

They were able to withdraw 280 Euros. Nearly in tears at their good fortune, they hugged and kissed, and took dinner at a small, inexpensive café across the Seine in the Latin Quarter, choosing, though, to sit inside, away from the windows, just to offer a little more protection.

The waiter was able to recommend a modestly-priced hotel down the block in an old building squeezed in by other old buildings; its stone walls long ago grayed by soot. There the desk clerk, seeing them weary and worn, and being a bit of a romantic himself, took pity on them and waived the requirement of ID, and also nodded at Tim's request that if anyone came looking for him, the clerk not reveal that they were there.

The creaky elevator took them to a small but tastefully decorated, welcoming room on the third floor. Another building loomed close by; through the window; some office workers were still seen to be at work.

Abby pulled off her boots and stood before Tim in bare feet; no longer so tall. They grinned at each other, but then he made a just-a-minute gesture and went to the room phone, and called police. "There are two men who will be attempting to rob the Louvre, tonight or tomorrow," he said. "Their names are Walter Howell and Aaron, though I don't know if Aaron's the first or the last name. "They're, uh, suspected in the U.S. of robbing the Smithsonian two weeks ago. They're driving a black Renault, license plate number 93F 1801 V. The right rear taillight is broken. My name? Uh, Gibbs. Thank you. Goodbye, _au revoir." _He hung up, and remarked to Abby, "I wonder what the French for BOLO is? _Regardez_ _vous_ something?"

"'Gibbs?' " Abby asked, smiling devilishly.

Tim shrugged, a little flustered. "He can talk his way out of anything."

"Well, come here, you smooth talker." She pulled him to her and kissed him, deeply, her hands sliding down his back. He pulled her closer, and had the presence of mind to pull down the window shade.

- - - - -

"Yeah. Gibbs." Gibbs and his team were having dinner in the _St Germain-des-Pres_ district when his phone rang. It had been so depressing to have gone to the pay phone at the _Jardins des Champs-Elysees_ and not found Tim and Abby there. They'd scoured the area, showed pictures around, to no avail.

"News, Jethro," said the Director. "We have a ping on one of Abby's credit cards. A cash withdrawal was made from an ATM on the Rue St Julien Le Pauvre about 15 minutes ago. Withdrew the card's daily limit."

"But they told Marseilles they were broke!" Gibbs protested, as Ziva and Tony scrambled to find the street on the map.

"I don't have any explanation. But you'll want to get going."

"You realize the Army will get the ping, too?"

"Yes. And who knows who else. Should we freeze the card?"

Gibbs thought. Precious seconds were getting away. Protect them and leave them hungry, or leave the card open, and risk having the Army snipers find them before Gibbs did? "Let's leave it open for the minute. I hope they'll find someplace safe to stay for the night, and we can let them make one more withdrawal in the morning."

"You're taking a chance. I hope you're right."

"Rue St Julien Le Pauvre. A small street in the Latin Quarter; not far from here," Ziva reported.

They threw money on the table for their half-eaten meal, and grabbed a taxi. Of course, Tim and Abby weren't lingering at the ATM, but even a walk through the neighborhood failed to turn them up. "We don't know it was them using the card," Tony remarked. "Maybe Howell and Finch stole it from them. Got the PIN number out of them somehow." He blinked; the only sign of how much it bothered him to say that. "I wonder how hard it would be to get the ATM camera tapes…?"

Gibbs called Morrison; grateful to find him still at work. "I was about to go home. Let me give you my cell phone number. I'll call one of my contacts in the Paris police and get him right on those tapes. A number of these tapes can be accessed remotely now." He gave Gibbs an address of a copy shop/Internet café in the area where they could go online and pick up an emailed file of the tape.

- - - - -

They were grateful that the tape was in color, but they also had to endure the pictures of several other bank customers on the tape who were of no interest to them. Suddenly, pulling out of a yawn, Tony knocked his chair over as he leaped in for a close look. "That's _Probie!"_ A black-haired man had come into view in the tape, joining the reddish-haired woman at the ATM. "I'd know that stance _anywhere!"_

Gibbs didn't doubt that, though he had a hard time getting his mind around the hair color. "Abby," he said softly. "She's not only colored her hair, but let it down _and_ is covering up her web tat with a scarf. Good on them. They're acting smart."

Ziva had already stopped the tape and was getting a sample of the pictures. They wouldn't blow up very well to a useful size, but they would do. She placed the order for copies, while Gibbs phoned the news to Morrison and the Director. Then they split up to canvas the area until the hour when people were no longer out and about.

A waiter at a cafe nodded _oui_, he had served them dinner; such polite _Americains_ they were. For _Americains_. But he had not known where they had gone, so sorry.

"He's lying," Ziva said, on the phone with Gibbs. "But I'm not sure why."

"Probably has a soft spot for Abby. She brings that out with people. I have one more hotel to check on this street and then we'll call it a night." He hung up, and seeing Tony come his way, whistled to him to join him.

The night desk clerk was a better liar than the waiter. He said over and over that he had not seen this couple, but Gibbs and Tony could tell that he was holding back. "Look, _monsieur_, these are friends of ours. They're running from people who want to harm them. We can help them. If you'll just call up to their room for us, or tell us the room number—"

"I have already told you, sirs, that there is no one here by that, ah, description. You would need a police order if you want to invade my guests' privacy. Please leave, now, or I _will_ call the police."

They knew better than to argue at that point, and so left. "Why do I get the feeling," Tony said, looking up at the hotel from across the street, "that I'm going to be spending the night somewhere other than in a nice, soft hotel bed?"

"Because you're intuitive, DiNozzo. I'll call Ziva back in; she can...curl up on some cardboard and get the first shift of sleep. I'll watch the hotel's front entrance; you take the back." This involved going through a rank alley with, likely, unpleasant things in the dark corners. Tony almost envied Ziva her sleep in the doorway behind Gibbs.

- - - - -

The knock on the door to their room came around 5:30 in the morning. Abby slipped out from under Tim's arm, grabbed the first bit of apparel that came to hand—Tim's shirt—and buttoned it swiftly over her. "I'm coming," she said, quietly, not wanting to wake Tim. He looked so sweet lying there.

It was their desk clerk. "My apologies, madam," he said, his eyes briefly registering the man's shirt she wore. "I did not want to disturb you last night. But there were two men; they came and asked about you two. Of course I sent them away. I said you were not here. I do not think they believed me. They have been watching this hotel all night. Sometimes they are apparent; sometimes they are in the shadows. For your safety, you must go. Quickly."

She put a hand on her racing heart. Of course their good fortune of yesterday couldn't last. "But if they're watching the entrances..."

"There is another way, an underground passage that connects to the building next door. Very old; still used for deliveries. The doors open at 6:00; you can go out that way and slip out that building's back entrance and it will still be dark."

She bade him goodbye and thanked him effusively for his kindness, and then went to wake Tim.

- - - - -

Feeling that they'd run out of safe places in the area, Tim and Abby grabbed _pains au chocolat_ and cups of hot chocolate for a breakfast on the go, splurged on a _Metro_ _carnet_ of ten tickets, and headed for the Eiffel Tower quarter. There Abby made another maximum withdrawal on her credit card, and in beautiful late summer weather, they laughed and promenaded along the banks of the Seine.

She held his arm as they stood under a bridge after a lunch of sandwiches and wine. In a solemn pause after a laugh had died away, she said, "We have money now for passports. We need to find someone who can ID us, and get a police report filed somehow."

"But we probably don't have enough money for plane tickets. I think we should try calling Marseilles again."

She looked up at him, saw his face, soft in the diffuse light of the reflections of the sun on the river that bounced on them; thought about how wonderful he'd been in this whole experience. What lengths he'd gone through to look out for her. How much he cared for her. Her heart bubbled over.

"Tim," she said excitedly. "Let's get married! _Right now!"_

- - - - -

The ping on Abby's second cash withdrawal was no more helpful than the first to Gibbs and his team. The Eiffel Tower quarter teemed with tourists and residents; it would be hard to find anyone in the crowd.

"I've got more bad news, though not entirely unexpected," said Morrison on Gibbs' phone. "Our contacts report known US Army Rangers Spec Ops snipers have entered France. Got 'em on their passports; God bless technology. Believed to be entering Paris; we're still looking for them."

"Thanks, Morrison," said Gibbs, knowing that one usually never saw their snipers; never had a chance.

- - - - -

Tim whooped; picked her up, and spun her around; both of them failing words and finding only joyous laughter. It was his fairy-tale dream come true! Abby, the only woman he'd ever loved; his at last.

He set her down, and with a squeal, she jumped into his arms. "Start practicing carrying me over the threshold, my dear fellow," she said. He kissed her instead, but then slowly set her down as urgent thoughts flowed into his mind.

"Abby, I love you madly. I adore you. I adore that we're in France, where 'I adore you', _Je t'adore, _sounds beautiful all by itself. I look at you and all I want to say is lines of poetry—the good, classical stuff; not the poems I write. I want to be with you every day now and forever and forever. But..."

Her glowing eagerness dimmed a bit. "But?" she repeated.

"But I think you're in love with being in love right now. We've been with each other for over a week, and there's no one I'd rather be with, even on the lam, but if we got married now..." He hope she hadn't noticed the small catch in his voice. "...then once we got back to the States, it would all be different. Before too long, I'm afraid you'd regret being tied down, and you'd want to see other people—"

"Tim, _no!_ I wouldn't, I wouldn't, I swear—"

"—and it would kill me, Abby. I couldn't keep you caged in a marriage if you didn't want to be, but if you left, you'd take my heart, and I would die. No, Abby, Abby, let's keep things as they are."

"But Tim; why won't you believe me?!"

He gently wiped away her tears with one finger. "I do believe you. I just love you so much. People don't usually jump into marriage on the spur of the moment, Abbs; they get engaged, to see if they really want to be faithful to each other."

"Then let's get engaged!" she cried. It wasn't her first choice, but if she couldn't have that, this would do.

She felt so nice, hugged up close against him. "I don't think we're even that close yet. People do sometimes talk about pre-engagements, though, or engaged-to-be-engaged..."

"Then that's what we'll do!" she said resolutely. Wiggling out of his grasp, she got down on one knee, and took his hand, to his amusement. "Timothy McGee, will you become pre-engaged with me, and make me the happiest woman on earth?"

"Dear lady," he said, "it sounds like a plan." They sealed it with a long, deep kiss.

"Special agent Timothy McGee?"

They turned at the voice; dark and guttural. "Who's asking?" Tim said, getting between the speakers and Abby.

"I am a friend," said the man. "I am sure you'll come with us. We'd like to offer you a, uh, business proposition." He clicked his fingers and half a dozen tough-looking men moved in.

"Not interested in any business deals, sorry. I'm too busy planning an eventual wedding."

"How sweet. My country, however, requires your superior memory talents. You will be well-compensated. Someday you may want then to marry this young woman."

"No thanks. Come on, Abby; let's go." Tim pulled her around to set off in the opposite direction. He knew that the longer they waited, the more difficult it would be to get away.

"You misunderstand me. That was not a request." Tim was seized by two of the Goliaths, and dragged off, despite his struggling.

"_NO! TIM!!"_ Abby screamed with all her might, as two others of the men held her back.

"_Abby, I love you!!"_ he called, and then was pushed into a car parked at the road. He was afraid he'd never see her again, that dear, dear woman who held his heart...


	11. Tears and Trials

Abby sank to her knees on the stone pavement under the bridge, sobbing, as the thugs holding her let her go and simply walked away. She then fell forward onto her hands, not caring about little things like abrasions. The greater pain in her heart was too much to bear. Nothing else mattered anymore. _Tim! Tim! Tim!_

After an unguessable amount of time, her tears slowed and she started shaking, and finally started thinking. _There must be _something_ I can do_..._but what? Who's taken him? And where?_

She became aware of someone approaching. Looking up and wiping her tears, she saw an elderly woman, bent and walking with a cane, walking slowly; a basket with fresh bread loaves, mushrooms, and cheeses over her other arm. Hardly a threatening-looking figure.

The old woman stopped before her, and touched Abby's cheek with a worn hand. "So many tears," she said, in English, in a voice with a soft accent. "I am certain it is not as bad as all that."

Abby struggled to reduce her tears to sniffles; wondering how the woman knew she didn't speak much French, and instead spoke English. "It is, though. I've lost my...friend. He's...gone...taken away...and I'm afraid I'll never see him again..." her sentence dissolved into tears again; Tim's face in her mind.

The woman appeared to be very old; looking like someone's grandmother or great-grandmother: hair short and the color of light clouds, wearing a well-maintained wool skirt, blouse, and sweater; a cloche on her head, and sturdy, sensible shoes. "I do not know that I can help; I am just an old woman." Her basket swayed on her arm, and Abby got up; towering over the small woman.

"Are you going far?" Abby asked. "Can I carry that for you?"

"You are very kind. I live close by, on this street. I would not refuse your help." And so they set off, Abby feeling that maybe, just maybe, there was a sliver of hope in the world if she could make someone's journey a little easier. Even if her own heart was irretrievablybroken.

"Who are you?" Abby asked, and immediately felt a little embarrassed for the way that came out, rather than _What's your name?_

The old woman smiled lightly, as if she'd been asked that many times before. "A friend. Just a friend."

Soon they reached the woman's dwelling; a cozy flat in a not-very-tall 17th century building. The woman invited Abby in, and served tea and chocolates, making light, soothing conversation. After a few sips and nibbles, Abby fell asleep on the couch; unexpectedly relaxed. The old woman pulled a throw blanket over her before sitting down to a second cup of the calming tea.

- - - - -

Tim came to in a room with a solitary bright light in his face, like a small, incandescent sun. He was sitting in a folding chair; his arms tied behind him. _Dizzy, nauseous, head hurts_..._ I must've been chloroformed._ He blinked against the light; knew it was there mostly to disarm and intimidate him; giving his captors the upper hand. _Let them speak first, wherever they are in the shadows. I'm not going to make their job any easier for them._

A hand came out of the darkness; slapped his face hard. Someone shouted something at him in French. When he didn't answer the question, if that's what it was, it was repeated, louder; accompanied by another slap.

Another voice, quieter, came from the other side, and then the first voice again, this time in English. "You have this great memory power, yes?" When Tim didn't answer quickly, he was slapped again; this time so hard that his nose bled.

"No...it's all a mistake," Tim said, trying to ignore the stinging in his face.

"No, no mistake. We have heard of your test results. There is perhaps no one in the world with your talents. You will be of great use to us."

"If there is no one else _like_ me, chances are your information about me is wrong! Who _are_ you?"

The speaker/slapper didn't answer that. "Systems are being developed to thwart CCDs...you know what CCDs are?"

" 'Communist Children's Ducklings?' "

Another slap; this one hard enough to nearly knock him and his chair over. Tim got it stabilized, and the stars were still spinning around his head when he spoke again. "Yeah, yeah; I know. 'Charge-coupled devices'. Semi-conductor chips used in digital cameras to change light images into electrical signals. What about them? Not that I really want to know." He tried to show a brave front, mostly to keep from quaking. _I'm in a fix; I really am. And no one knows where I am. And Abby_..._is she okay?_

"As I said, technicians are developing systems that will prevent recordings from taking place. The systems shine a coherent light into the recording device; eliminating the recording capability. It requires a device that detects photography in digital cameras by seeking out their image-producing sensors by analyzing their shape and contour."

"So?"

"Since we do not want anyone to stop us if we, ah, choose to record something, we are working to get around it. One stage of development is to counter-interfere with a laser of our own, sent back to the image-inhibitor. But that is not this shop's plan.

"No, we are going to study your incredible memory in detail and try to determine how it works. Then we will be able to create programs that can get around the laser effects on our CCDs. First, then, it is necessary to test your endurance..."

They threatened to attach a brain wave scanner, later. But it all began with a long series of tests; pictures flashed on a wall before Tim. Shapes, letters, numbers, symbols; all rapid; some short breaks in which he had to describe what he saw. Despite misgivings, he answered, since failure to do so was a slap, a punch or a kick. Once a mallet pounded his knee when he was deemed too slow. It was no good to pretend to not recall the images; he _did_ recall them, and evidently this showed on his face.

_Don't look to the left_, he told himself, but that was such an involuntary thing. Some studies suggested that nearly everyone did that, to access memory from the left side of the brain. Doubtless his captors knew that.

It became painful; the quickly-changing screens, the sudden stops as he was ordered to relay what he'd seen. At one point he picked out a soft whirring sound in the dark to one side. A camera? They must be recording him. _What I'd give for some coherent light right now..._

On and on; more and more; lights and images and now sounds, too, that he was forced to recall; meaningless pitches and chords; lightsandcolorsandtonesandnumbersandfacesyesfacestoofacesallstaringallstaringechoingechoinglouderandlouderandlouderandlouder...

He started screaming,screaming,screaming and couldn't stop couldn't stop couldn't stop until everything went dark for him.

- - - - -

The afternoon had been fruitless and disturbingly quiet for Gibbs' team. After the second withdrawal on Abby's credit card, Gibbs told Jenny to freeze the account. They'd probably already given too much information to whoever might be tracking Abby and Tim.

It was six o'clock, and the team was having dinner at a beer bar. Gibbs and Tony were splitting an order of _moules-frites_ (steamed mussels and french fries) while Ziva was pleased with _crottin chaud en salad _(goat's cheese, toast and salad). The beer selection was excellent, and hard to choose among. They were happy to let the staff choose for them.

They could almost forget their troubles. While they were all laughing an at exaggerated joke Tony made at his own expense, Gibbs' phone rang.

"Yeah, Gibbs."

"Morrison here. I have some good news for you. We've got Abby Sciuto."

"What?! What do you mean you've 'got' her?!" Gibbs stood up, almost knocking over his pint glass. Ziva and Tony crowded him; eager to hear. He held the phone out a little for them.

"We found her, and she's being cared for. She's okay."

"Well, where is she, man?! We'll go pick her up right now!"

"You can't..."

"What do you mean, I can't?! Of course I can!"

"I mean you _can't_. Not at the location she's at. She's asleep now, and being cared for by one of my contacts, her name is Elodie, and she knows more about covert ops than I'll ever know. She was in the French Resistance during World War II, and—"

"_World War II?!_ How _old_ is she; this contact?!"

" 'Very'. Let's leave it at that; she's a little modest about it. But due to her age, and the need to keep her identity secret, I've agreed to never divulge her location. So you can't go there. All my contacts in Paris are busy looking for the Army snipers; I can't spare anyone at the moment to go watch Elodie's apartment building. When it's dark, I'll get someone over there who can escort Ms. Sciu—_Abby_ out and bring her to you."

Tony was mouthing _McGee! McGee!_ in his face. Gibbs said to Morrison, "Well, I suppose that's the best we can do for now. As long as you're _sure_ she'll be safe?"

"Safe as Fort Knox. Elodie doesn't walk as well as she used to, but she still has a steady grip on her pistol; practices on the firing range at her gun club monthly."

"Okay. Glad to hear that Abby's being taken care of. Please thank your people for me. Do you have anything on McGee? Did he and Abby get separated? He'd never leave her alone voluntarily. She's not an agent and has had only minimal self-defense training."

"McGee. Yeah." Morrison paused, and they knew the news wouldn't be good. "Elodie reported that when she came across Abby, Abby was in hysterics. She could only tell Elodie that some men had abducted McGee and driven off with him."

"Does she know who they were?" Gibbs asked, his voice hushed.

"Abby didn't know. Elodie only saw some of them, and only from a distance, but said that they appeared to be pros. Probably agents from another country. She was able to describe the car, but couldn't give a full plate number. Still, there's enough to start working on."

"Do you think they'll leave the country with him?"

"Eventually, yes. Maybe not right away, though. Try to keep your spirits up, Gibbs. My contacts have some pretty amazing talents."

Gibbs hung up, and stood with his eyes closed for a long moment. He then sighed, and the three of them took their seats again, silently.

"Must be a nice job Morrison has," Tony remarked with a small smile but little humor. "Heads a minute NCIS outpost in a vacation spot: sun, sand, and ships. And on the side he has this incredible little espionage kingdom."

Ziva said, "Does HQ know about this, you think?"

Gibbs smiled a little. "Jenny knows practically everything that goes on. I wouldn't be surprised if NCIS isn't paid by a few other agencies, even other countries, to run this espionage operation. But, as you say, DiNozzo, it does sound like a nice job."

- - - - -

Another phone call came a few hours later as dusk was settling in hard. "Gibbs, Morrison again. I have egg all over my face."

"What's happened?"

"It's Abby. Elodie called in, distraught. It seems that Elodie fell asleep herself, unintentionally, and when she awoke, Abby was gone"

"_What?!_

"Elodie found no sign of a break in, and dusted for prints; she concludes that Abby woke up and left. She never specifically _told_ Abby to stay there. She feels very sorry about that."

"So you've no idea when Abby left, or where she went?"

"No. But I've pulled several people off sniper patrol. They'll look for her, and they'll find her."

"Give me the last known location. _NOW, _Morrison!!"

"It's the St-Germain-des-Pres district, on the Left Bank. near the river. But I already have people out there—"

"And one of them is one of _my_ people. We're going in, too. Call me if you get any news." Gibbs snapped his rented phone shut roughly. He hadn't worried about Abby so much when he knew Tim was with her, but now alone? Would the snipers also consider _her_ a target?


	12. On the Lam

Hidden by the dense trees, the detachment consisting of US Army Rangers Spec Ops sniper Cecily Kangas and her spotter-counterpart, Paul Gergely, set up shop in the_ Bois de Vincennes,_ the large forest on the east side of Paris, in the late afternoon. The other detachment, Charlton and Savard, would be doing the same on the city's west side, in the _Bois de Boulogne_. These were good places to lurk until the Army's Intelligence Support Activity out of the Joint Special Operations Command located Timothy McGee and notified them. Then they could move in.

Kangas watched as Gergely tested the satellite communications system. Pinpointed; ready to go. She removed her camouflage suit hat, and shook her long blonde hair loose, eliciting the predictable response in her partner.

"Wooo! Cecily; you're going to start reminding me of my second wife if you continue doing that hair-flippy thing and looking that good. And that's _not_ good. Get it cut, woman, or keep it covered up. We don't want 'em to spot your sun-colored hair and give away our position."

"Deal with it, Paul," she said, affectionately. Maybe they'd been partners for too long, starting with when she was learning, as _his_ spotter, three years ago. "As if your silver hair doesn't _also_ stick out."

"No way! I keep mine covered up. Mostly." He _did_ remove his cap, then, and fanned himself with it. Not that this would suffice down the road, when in closer city quarters they'd have to don the heavy ghillie suits for further disguise, and swelter in them in the September warmth. For now, though, until they knew were to find their target, the standard camouflage would be fine. "Whoops, incoming..."

The message was that the credit card owned by Abigail Sciuto had been used again, this time in the St-Germain-des-Pres district. Now that the sniper teams were inside Paris, they could at last move in.

- - - - -

Abby set down the small duffel bag that carried hers and Tim's scant belongings, and stared at the credit card swipe machine in the sandwich bar in disbelief. "The card's _good!"_ she insisted to the shopkeeper. "Honest! It worked fine this morning..." But it was now coming up _rejecter,_ 'declined'.

The shopkeeper didn't reply, only gave her a cold look. Either he didn't understand English or chose just to glare at her. He'd already made up her camembert-filled _baugette_; she had no choice but to pay for it out of the cash she had and was hoarding. _"Excusez-moi,"_ she said, counting out the Euros carefully. If there really was something wrong with her card now, she'd have to be extra-careful with the cash she had left.

He wrapped the sandwich and she left with that and a bottle of water, which was cheaper than the caffeine she really craved. _How did everything go from Good to Bad to Worse to Dreadful so fast? Where did they take Tim? How can I rescue him?_

It was that deep fear of whatever was being done to Tim that had roused her from the light sleep at the old woman's flat. Seeing the sweet old lady asleep herself, Abby had simply crept out; far too impatient to be doing something to just sit around. If there had been a pen and paper at hand, Abby would have left a note of appreciation, but finding none, she simply left. In her mind she recorded the address, and vowed to send a note, and maybe a gift basket, later. Too bad about the lady's having fallen asleep. Maybe she had a grandson or other acquaintance in the police department who could have been of help.

She considered going to the police herself—but when they discovered she was in France without a passport, would they lock her away? Would the American embassy help if she were imprisoned, assuming she'd be allowed to call them? _Why are there no good answers?!_

At last she decided to buy another _telecarte_ phone card. It hurt to part with more Euros, and she almost wept, buying a 50-unit card and a 120-unit one. The _tabac_ salesman advised her that a quick call to the States should be possible with the 120-unit card. He was surprised to see anyone get weepy over the purchase of any of his cards; much less this one with the image of the war hero Robert Keller on it. The _Americain_ must be sentimental.

_Who should I call? _she wondered. Gibbs, her rock, she quickly decided. She'd have to speak fast, though, and not get sidetracked. At this hour he'd still be at work; it would be early afternoon in Washington. His was one of the few cell phone numbers she had memorized. She dialed it, and...nothing. Didn't even go over to voice mail. There was no charge, thankfully.

A fist went to her mouth to calm her anxiety. She didn't remember anyone else's cell number. _Should I call the NCIS public line? What if I'm put on hold forever, and time out before I get to talk to someone?...I can't even remember the admin line number...I wish Tim had told me what the Director's private line number was; I'd even risk _her_ wrath at this point._

_Assuming anyone at NCIS is willing to talk to us_...

She sank onto a bench. _Think this thing out, Abby. The man you love has been kidnapped. Do whatever it takes to find him and free him. Humble yourself if you have to, but call in anyone and everyone who might be of help. _

Again she went to the pay phone, and, a few tears clouding her vision, used the _minitel_ directory on the phone to locate NCIS-Marseille's phone number _(right now I wish I had the memory Tim says he has,_ she thought at seeing the _minitel_ charge), and called it. It was answered on the third ring.

"Hi, I hope someone there can help me. I'm an uh, NCIS employee stranded in Paris, and my, ah, co-worker—"

She could almost hear the woman on the other end come alert. "Yes, ma'am? What's your name?"

"Abby. Abigail Sciuto. But it's my co-wor—"

"Ms. Sciuto, please hold on! _Don't hang up!!!"_

"I won't, but—"

A man's voice; excited. "Ms. Sciuto? Abby? My name is Morrison. I'm the head of the Marseilles office. _Where are you?! _We've been looking for you!! _Tell me your location, and stay right there!!"_

_No!!!_ This made no sense! Why would NCIS be looking for them, since they'd been fired?! Unless...unless...If NCIS had traced them to France, somehow, was it because they thought she and Tim had gone over to an enemy side? Would they be looking for them as traitors?

In _France_? Despite the minor popular squabblings that appeared now and then in the news, France and the U.S. were still allies.

But France was a stepping-off point to so many other countries...it wasn't beyond the bounds of belief that they'd be meeting someone here, someone who could make a deal with them, a good deal making them decide to depart for another place..._If I were NCIS Intel, that's what I'd be thinking_...

"Abby? Abby, are you there?"

She hung up the phone, slowly. There was no one left whom she could trust.

- - - - -

Of course, Gibbs' team found earlier that Abby had eluded them again. It was so hard to find one person in so large a city of permanent residents and huge numbers of tourists. The call that came from Morrison in the early evening helped cheer them a bit: the Paris police had picked up the suspected jewel thieves, ensigns Walter Howell and Aaron Finch, from a tip phoned in by someone named Gibbs.

"That's got McGee written all over it...especially the broken tail light," Gibbs said to him, after Morrison related the story in detail. A broken tail light, in some municipalities, caught police attention more than a license plate on a BOLO.

Within half an hour, Morrison was back on the phone. "Abby's tried using her credit card again. Darn thing pinged even though it was declined. That's not good."

"Is the Army in Paris yet?"

"Don't know. They've covered their tracks since we last spotted them. I've sent people to the two large forests flanking the city to see if that's where they're waiting. But they definitely should be here by now—"

"And if they got that ping, they'll be moving in," Gibbs sighed. "Not that we've had any luck so far, but where was the credit card used?"

"In the Luxembourg Quarter. Your people are certainly doing the tour of Paris, aren't they? The street is Rue Servandoni."

"On it! Thanks!"

Minutes later, there was Morrison again, while they were still in the taxi. "Gibbs! She _called_ us! I just spoke to her! But she hung up on me when I asked for her location."

Gibbs swore. "Tell me _everything_ she said." He listened as Morrison did so, then said, "The pause, and then a hang-up with no further words? Did someone surprise her, do you think?"

"I don't think so. I've had our general line's incoming calls taped for the last few days; illegal, but necessary right now, for just such a call. Let me play it back for you. Hang on..."

"Tape of Abby calling Marseilles a few minutes ago," Gibbs said to Tony and Ziva, and they leaned in to listen with him. Gibbs felt a catch in his throat at hearing the recording of her voice.

"The call was too short for us to get the location," Morrison said. "I'm sorry."

"You did all you could," said Gibbs. "We're at Rue Servandoni now. Keep us informed." The taxi driver pulled up to the curb, and they got out. _Why did she call and then hang up, if she wasn't feeling threatened?_

- - - - -

"Prepare him." one man said to the other, surveying Tim, unconscious. "It's time for more tests." The second man brought out ammonium carbonate, which quickly revived their prisoner.

Tim almost cried on seeing he was still in the dark room. If he couldn't escape, death would be preferable to this. _Abby_... At one time his first thoughts would have been of his parents and his sister, but now...

He tried to quell his anxiety. His FLETC training had told him that anxiety was an enemy; in a dangerous situation he would best reason out a problem if he stayed as calm as he could. _But what if this _is _as calm as I can be?!_ he warred with himself.

He remembered more; this time from his week-long eidetics classes...oh, so long ago, they seemed. Some researchers felt that overloading an eidetic memory could result in impairment in doing even simple tasks; loss of ability in cognitive tasks.

And he changed his mind from a moment ago, now resolute. _No. I won't allow them to break me and cast me aside._

_Dammit, I want to live!_

_There's a way out of here; there must be. I just have to find it._

This session started with more images on the screen, again increasing in speed. _Avoid overload_, he told himself. _I won't let the images hurt me like they did in the first session._

_Avoid overload. Avoid overload. Avoid overload. Avoid overload. Avoid overload_...

Despite his efforts, he was screaming again, but this time he managed to seize control of his thoughts by saying his name, over and over, softly, until his captors stopped the images. _Is that it?_ _Interrupt the memory process with a distracting agent, like a sound?_..._Yes!_ The "paper" that now appeared in his memory had that theory, mentioned briefly in his class: that eidetic retention could sometimes be thwarted by speaking out loud; for example, reciting numbers. _Of course, _all _of this is just theory. There are so few of us eidetikers to study_...

"Shall we tape your mouth shut, you fool?" one of the men said to him, harshly. "You will only speak when we ask you to!"

The testing switched, after they'd held up a glass to Tim's lips, and he drank greedily. Water; simple water; cool and beautiful. Now they projected hundreds of dots on the screen. Tim stared at it in wonder. _I don't remember this from my classes_...

After about ten seconds, it was replaced with another picture with dots...or was it?

Tim blinked twice, and his jaw dropped. _Is this possible_...

"What do you see?" asked one of his captors.

He couldn't help answering; he couldn't help himself. It went against all his training to make things any easier for the enemy, but he was so astounded.

"The Eiffel Tower," he breathed, "and the Arc de Triomphe, sort of behind it, in the upper left-hand corner. At night. In 3-D."

"Well done!" said the man. "You have the amazing ability that is perhaps the ultimate test of eidetikers. You have combined two unrelated sheets of dots—" He looked at the screen; it was all just dots to him "—into a stereoscopic vision. There is only one other known case, a woman at Harvard, who could do the same.

" Congratulations, _Monsieur_ McGee. Tomorrow you will leave with us for our country. Your work has just begun!"


	13. Chase

"Know this," one of his captors in the shadows, the one who hadn't spoken much, said to Tim, "that we are your new life. Your past is past. _We_ are your new friends. You will be happy to work for us."

"Look, I just want to go back to the U.S., where I belong," said Tim; the weariness of hours of being tied up eating at him. His wrists hurt, and he was starting to ache all over. "I don't think anyone knows enough about Eidetics to really see any practical use in it, and—"

"Not true. We can think of several uses. What did your people think of your talents, in Washington? Did they not laugh at you, disbelieve you? Even the ones who you thought loved and respected you?"

"_No!"_ Tim said it forcefully, but his face showed different thoughts. _Gibbs, Tony and Ziva all never believed me when I told them about it_..._even Abby, though she says she loves me, every time I bring it up she puts me down; implies I'm crazy to believe in it_..._has she ever even _tried_ to understand it?_

"Yes, even the ones who loved and respected you. What would they do, _Monsieur _McGee, if they thought you were now a liability, rather than an asset? Would your beloved NCIS terminate your employment? They would have no more use for an agent who thought he had these memory abilities that no one else had, for this must be constantly in his mind, and liable to interfere with his work."

"No!" _But what _had_ they thought of him, when he had that week in training; doing challenging tests and generally having fun with it all? Had Tony, Ziva, Gibbs thought he was becoming vain, narcistic, while they were out doing real work?_

"And if they realized the truth of your amazing talents...as surely they have done by now...knowing you have left America, would they not brand you a traitor to your country? And have your government out to eliminate you if it could, to prevent you from working for another country?"

Tim hung his head. The man's thoughts were pushing his own on, to the same conclusion, as much as it hurt to think that.

"NCIS is no longer your friend. You are a threat to them. _We_ are your _real_ friends now." The man said something in the other language to the other man, and Tim felt the ropes around his hands being untied.

Rubbing his sore wrists, Tim was surprised, and grateful, a few minutes later, to see a fold-up table brought to him. It bore a plate with cold cuts, fresh bread, vegetables, and an apple tart. A couple of chocolate coins in gold foil rounded the meal out, and there was a glass of red wine. He dug in; for he felt ravenous.

"Yes, eat, and enjoy it. We have a very good cook on staff. We will keep you well-fed and happy."

The food was very good, indeed. Tim stuck the last gold "coin" in his pocket for a snack, later. He was aware of his weary state, and didn't object, in fact, he was pleased, when he was lead to a small but neat room with a bed. He was bade to sleep, but offered the run of whatever he found in the mini-fridge there. And he did rummage through it, as his escort left. Bottled water, beer, cans of Coke and bottles of Orangina. _How eclectic!_

It occurred to him that he hadn't paid much attention to his escort, though he was easy enough to call to mind. Slurping down a Coke, Tim then stretched out on the bed. There was certainly a lot to think about...

- - - - -

It was almost fully dark. Abby couldn't think what to do; where to go. Some place safe to spend the night? Thankfully, the temperatures were still mild; almost warm, and here it was 8:30. She would be fine sleeping outside, as long as she was hidden. A park would probably do, but the nice weather was also working against her: people would likely be out and about in the parks until midnight or so.

_Until then, I should try to conceal myself in a crowd_..._The Eiffel Tower should be good for that; they say lots of people go there at night to see the light show_..._might as well use up another Metro ticket, since I've bought them already_...

She approached the Saint-Sulpice station, at the edge of the Luxembourg Quarter. Bir-Hakeim appeared to be the closest Metro stop to the Tower; she'd have to change lines somewhere. There were still plenty of people out strolling, laughing, chattering. In the parks old men sat under the chestnut trees, playing chess by lamplight. As they did everywhere, teenaged boys shot by on skateboards, earning the wrath of some of the pedestrians.

"_Abby!!"_

She knew that voice, and her heart stopped cold. _No, not here; not now!_ She usually didn't think of herself as needing protection, she _wanted_ to be self-reliant, but she wished devoutly that Tim was here right now to protect her. She bolted through the station doors.

"_ABBY! Stop! Wait up!!"_

Wildly she dashed down the escalator, muscling people aside. _It's true! NCIS _is _after us! Can't let them catch me_..._I'm not a traitor; I'm not; but how can I make them believe me?! I don't want to face a firing squad_...

She yanked out a ticket from the _carnet_, shoved it into the first barrier, retrieved it from the second barrier; impatient at the fraction of a second it took to accomplish this, and pressed through the turn style. Down another set of stairs to the platform. _Hide me, crowds. Hide me. Dang it; when's the next train?!_

- - - - -

Tony, at the lead of the team, had been the one to spot her; to call out to her. As they tore after her, he said, "Why isn't she stopping?! Didn't she hear me?!"

"Don't know what she heard, but something's spooked her," said Gibbs. "Come on!"

They were slowed by having to stop and purchase tickets; pooling their Euro coins, they let Ziva make the purchases from the machines. Abby was long out-of-sight, but there had been no rumblings of trains, so she still must be in the station. "You two: take the outbound track. I'll take the inbound one," Gibbs commanded.

- - - - -

_They'll split up to find me. It doesn't take an agent to figure that much out! But how in the world did they recognize me, with my hair gone henna and my look changed? Never mind that now_...

_Hide. Hide. Where can I hide?! Please, God_...

_There._ An old-fashioned phone booth, a creature probably disappearing as fast from the French landscape as in America, with the invasion of cell phones. But here one was; black-domed and with a spire on top. It was unoccupied! She bounded in, and, pulling the creaking door shut, crouched down, out of sight. _Come on, train; come quickly._ She cursed the Metro for not having a "next train arriving in x minutes" sign.

- - - - -

Gibbs walked swiftly along the platform. The inbound trains actually had two platforms; one on either side of the tracks. There was a staircase, an exit, at the far end. Had she had time to make it up there, and out of the station? Would she have thought of that?

_Why is she running from us?_

_Someone must be out to hurt her_..._but who? Howell and Finch are in custody; does she know that?_

Lots of Parisians and tourists; several women with reddish-brown hair. Henna was a popular shade here. It was distracting; trying to pin what he remembered of Abby (pigtails or ponytails; _black_ hair; dog collar; spider web tattoo) with the brief image they'd had of a woman with red hair hanging down. _Was the person Tony had seen really Abby? All I saw was the back of her head after she started running_...

- - - - -

A rumbling filled the station; louder, louder, _louder_ as a train came in. Abby dared a peek out; saw that it was at the far platform; the outbound one. She was on the _inbound_ side; determined, more than ever, to get to the Eiffel Tower. Sighing, trembling, she crouched back down.

_Where is the train going inbound?!!!_

Footsteps came by, and the door opened. A meek little man, looking sort of like that rat in that new animated movie when that evil chef came after him with a cleaver, stood there. "Go away!" Abby hissed at him._ "Occupe!"_

Eyes large, he did so, closing the door without comment on seeing a strange woman crouching on the floor.

More footsteps approached; slower, deliberate. She held her breath. A tall, elderly priest was seen through the window; he didn't look in.

_Rumblerumblerumblerumble_..._Yes!!_ There was an inbound train! She waited until she heard it stop; then sprang from the phone booth; almost in tears at the creaking of the door that was calling attention to her. She didn't dare look around for Gibbs, Tony or Ziva, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.

The white-and-green train chimed, once; indicating it was ready to be boarded. She hustled to the front, and pushed the button to open the door, slipping inside and taking a seat near the door and closing her eyes. _Don't notice me Don't notice me Don't notice me_...

- - - - -

Tony and Ziva pounded down the stairs to Gibbs' platform as the inbound train approached. "No sign of her on the outbound side, Gibbs," Ziva reported. "Unless she got on the first train. Maybe she's..."

Through the slowing train windows, Gibbs spotted a reddish-haired woman run out from a telephone booth on the opposite platform. _"There she is!"_ They dashed for the train; just getting on at the closing-door chime. Gibbs motioned his team to again split up. The cars were packed; it would be a challenge to find one person.

- - - - -

The train approached the next station; Saint Germain des-Pres; it was so announced over the loudspeaker. Abby, hunched into her scarf, lifted an eyelid a little and saw through the crowds wavy hair moving toward her; hair that might be Ziva's.

_One_..._two_..._three_... The train slowed at the station, and chimed. Abby squeezed through the crowd and burst onto the platform. _Run, feet, RUN!! _Her heart pounded like a runaway train. She didn't think she'd ever been so frightened in all her life.

Only five steps, then a hand on her shoulder, and she screamed.

"Abby, _stop!_ I don't know why you're running, but it shouldn't be from us!" Ziva turned her around, searched her face, trying to figure out the reason for her tears.

Gibbs and Tony joined them. "Abby; it's _us!"_ said Tony.

"Are you..._afraid of us?"_ asked Gibbs, seeing her shaking and trying to shrink away.

"_I'm not a traitor; I'm not a traitor; please don't hurt me_..._"_ she sobbed; bending over and hugging herself.

"I don't think you ever _could_ be a traitor, Abbs. It's not in you." Gibbs then stepped forward, and hugged her tight. He still didn't understand what was in her mind, but there was time for that later.

And suddenly, for her, that much was all right. She leaned into the embrace, feeling his warmth, feeling the comfort of the hug; a hug she hadn't had for almost two weeks. It was just what she needed. She was crying again, but now for a different reason.

- - - - -

Tim woke when the door to his room opened. Everything was dark; the flashlight borne by the person entering the room cut a minor yellow path on the floor.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Tim said quietly, sitting up.

"I am a friend," said a voice, low and strong. "Get dressed and come with me, please."

"No. Why?" Tim could hear the worry in his own voice. _I was just starting to feel at ease, a bit_...

"No time to explain. We must go now. The guards will change shifts in...six minutes. I can deal with the one on the door now."

"What?! Where are we going?"

"Get dressed. Explanation later."

Tim did so, and, trembling, followed this person out. _Am I going to my execution?_..._If they're dissatisfied with my abilities, they may be trying to get rid of me now so they can slip away before dawn_...

Barely able to see the man's shape before him, Tim followed him, silently, out his room door and down the corridor. Another corridor; down stairs. A door. Something was said to the guard there; and the guard grunted, and opened the door.

They went out into the soft warmth of the evening; into a garden of trees and large flowering bushes. The man said to him quietly, his head turned over his shoulder, "I told him the toilet in your room was broken and you do not have access to any of the others, so I would bring you out here. Keep walking; do not look back..."

They got to the far edge of the garden._ "Go! Go! Do not look back!"_ his helper hissed. There were shouts from the building; lights flashed on; a shot was heard.

"_Go! _Be aware that there are people who will help you. Trust them; they will identify themselves as friends."

"But what about _you?!"_ asked Tim, now worried about this person who'd obviously taken a risk for him.

"I will be...okay. _Go!"_ More shots; too close. The man fell with a choked cry.

Tim hurtled a low bush, and ran and ran; tears in his eyes. _Friends? How will I know them? I thought I didn't have any left_...


	14. Friends

At the garden's edge, Tim stopped. To mind came a picture of the unfortunate Clarice, the petty officer/crook/tattooed rescuer who'd been gunned down by Howell as she'd freed him and Abby. _No! I can't do this again! Even if they recapture me, I have to chance it…have to see if this guy's alive. If I'd done that for Clarice, if I hadn't been so concerned with getting Abby to safety, maybe she'd…_

He darted back; it was no more than 30 feet. His rescuer was still alive! He was halfway sitting up; grasping his shoulder. That was probably where he had been hit. Tim wrapped his arm around the man on the other side and hauled him to his feet. Quietly as they could, they walked out of the gardens, sticking to the darkness. There were no sounds of pursuit, but Tim wasn't about to take a chance. _Why, if they said they wanted me, are they trying to keep me…prisoner?_

"You…should not have come back for me," his rescuer gasped. "You are taking too much risk."

"Yeah, well, Life's nothing if you don't take some risks. But you—we've got to get you to a hospital."

"No hospital, no. My cover will be, you say, ah, 'blow'. Stop, please. I will call a taxi."

Tim waited with the man until the taxi pulled up, and they then ventured into the light of a streetlamp. Finally Tim could see his rescuer well: age about 50, fit, the kind of face that blends in everywhere. "Will you come with me?" the man said. "I may need help getting up the stairs."

"You're sure you don't want a hospital?"

"For this scratch?" the man snorted. "It is nothing, less than nothing. Anyone can fix it for me. But there is always one person I go to when I need help."

"Who _are _you?"

"A friend."

"I wish people would stop saying that! The last one who did, before you, drugged me and brought me to that asylum of kooky Eidetic scientists!"

"My name is Henri, then."

"Henri. That's better. Why did you help me escape, Henri? Not that I'm even sure yet that I _wanted_ to escape."

The man shrugged. "Because you were a prisoner. I do not think you really wanted to betray your country."

"But I _wasn't!_ They were just testing my abilities, and they offered me a job…it's not like my former employer wanted me…"

"I did not hear the entire story. But you do not want to be involved with those people. I have been, ah, among them for some time. They can be cruel...Ah, here we are…"

They pulled up to a row of flats in a neighborhood that looked like the one Tim and Abby had been in just before he was abducted, in the Eiffel Tower quarter. Henri unlocked the door, and, with a little support from Tim, they went up to the second floor, where another key unlocked the door to a flat. Opening it, he called out something in French inside, and as they stepped inside, lights came on. An old woman stood there, in robe and slippers, pistol in hand.

"My _maman_. She has a, you say, 'flair for the dramatic'.

The old woman snorted. "Not dramatic at all. I kept this house safe from two home invasions with this gun, and during the War, I..." Her voice trailed off. "Now, my Henri, what trouble have you caused this time?" Putting the pistol in a drawer, she set about tending to the shoulder wound.

Tim watched curiously, comprehension finally flowering in his mind. "You, Henri, were a plant in that outfit. And you—" he nodded at Henri's mother "—you're a spy, too?"

"Yes," she said. "And you must be McGee, the young man everyone is looking for."

"If everyone's looking for me—and I know I've felt that for some time—then I'm putting you in danger by being here," he said, getting to his feet.

"Do not rush off, McGee," said Henri, wincing as his mother cleaned the wound. "Are you certain that everyone who is following you means you harm? Do you trust no one?"

"Pretty much," Tim said grimly. "You have no idea what people think I've done. Even NCIS would be glad to have me gone. Please, if I can ask one thing of you, please don't tell them you've seen me." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and departed into the stillness before the dawn.

- - - - -

_Back to the previous evening_...

Abby was still too shattered to relax in public; to be debriefed there. This was apparent by her clasping of her hands, her tight face, her unwillingness to make eye contact. Despite his eagerness to find out what had gone on with Abby and Tim, more eagerness than he would have thought he had in him, Gibbs called a halt to the attempts, and checked the four of them into a nearby hotel. Ravenous Tony was sent out to bring them all back dinner while Gibbs called Jenny and Morrison with the news of the successful round-up of Abby. After their meal, in the room that Abby would share with Ziva, they settled down with beer, cognac, fruit and cheese to go over the long, eventful story.

"Abby? Abby...? Earth to Abby..." Tony said when the story had wrapped up and Abby sat, unmoving.

She didn't respond to his gentle call. There was too much information to process. After she had told her team about hers and Tim's adventures (leaving out a bit), and hearing the team relate their part in it, she felt drained. Yes, she was safe now, and she _did_ trust them again, and she knew she would be provided for. But she felt painfully incomplete. _Tim_...

Rather than starting to relax, she became more despondent. Tony eventually cut off her cognac supply and sentenced her to water. "How can I _relax?"_ she wept. "Tim is being help prisoner, by...I don't know who. What are you doing to get him free?"

Gibbs looked away. "We don't know where he is."

"So? You found _me!"_

"Mostly by luck. We followed the pings that registered every time you used your credit card, even after we had it turned off...the Director called us with that information. Abby, we don't know who snatched McGee any more than you do. And...listen, Abby; look at me...quite likely they've taken him out of Paris by now; out of France. You have to accept that."

Panic invaded her face as the enormity of this set in. "No! _NO!"_ She grabbed Gibbs by the shirt. "You've _got_ to find him! He's part of the team! You've _got_ to _find_ him!!!"

"We'll do what he can. And we do have some help. There's an espionage network here that had, er, has been looking for you and Tim. Like that old woman who helped you, Elodie, she's one of them. No one's given up hope." His eyes, though, weren't as optimistic. Sooner or later, they'd have to return to Washington, with or without Tim.

When they all at last retired for the night, Abby lay in her soft, deep bed, head on the velvety pillow, unable to stop the quiet tears. _It's unfair that I'm lying in comfort, while Tim is a prisoner_..._I wish, I wish_...

She longed to get out and do something, but that was impossible with Ziva as her roommate. Ziva, she imagined, would hear every footstep of a spider on the wall. If Abby tried to move, Ziva would be on her, blocking the exit, before she could blink. Eventually, despite her grief, Abby fell asleep.

Ziva, from her bed, was glad that a few ticks in the night were all the movements that Abby made. _The stress must be overwhelming the poor girl._

In the morning, she woke to find Abby sitting up in bed, her eyes dull. "I have extra elastics. Why not put your hair up in pigtails or ponytails?" Ziva suggested. "You might feel better. You don't need to hide your appearance any more. We could even get you some black hair dye, and—"

"No," Abby said, and it was a long moment before she spoke again. "Not until we find Tim. No."

"As you wish."

The team left the hotel for breakfast, finding it readily available in one of the tantalizing cafes in the area, many decades old and proudly naming the artists and writers that had patronized them 50 or more years ago, when the Left Bank had housed the cutting-edge cultural and intellectual movements. Delicious _baguettes, brioches, _and _pains au chocolat_ were all taken in with gusto, washed down with black coffee, _cafe au lait,_ or hot chocolate.

They lingered over the meal, perhaps in hope of bringing some sparkle back into Abby's eyes, but then after an hour or so, with no success, filed out. Gibbs stopped to pick up an _International Herald Tribune;_ Tony ducked across the street to see what was playing at the cinema; Ziva stopped to look at a display of suede jackets in a shop window, and Abby...when they looked up, she was nowhere in sight.

_I've planned this well,_ Abby thought, now two, almost three blocks away. She'd made a point of leaving the small duffel bag on the bed at the hotel, quite visible to Ziva, but secretly making sure all her remaining cash and her _Metro_ tickets were in her pockets. It should be easy enough to get away, if the team were distracted. Even if they started searching for her quickly, and guessed she'd gotten on the _Metro_, they would most likely think she was on line 4, where they'd found her the previous day. Instead, she'd skirted two blocks in the other direction, to the Mabillon station on line 10. She took it east.

- - - - -

"Damn her!" Gibbs said when they'd discovered she was gone. "You two—what were you thinking?! You saw how depressed she was over McGee!" His phone rang while they were busy hanging their heads. "Gibbs!" he snapped.

"Disquieting news, Gibbs, and I hate to be its bearer," said Morrison. "The Paris police called me. Howell and Finch have implicated Abby in the Smithsonian heist. They say she has some of the jewels."

"_What?!_ That's _ridiculous!_ She certainly hasn't said anything to _us_ about—"

"Well, I'm afraid you'll have to bring her in. It's likely all just for show; they'll search her, and that will be the end of that."

"Maybe. But there's a slight problem..."

- - - - -

Abby rode the Metro up, down, and across; transferring, transferring, transferring. Finally, she made up her mind and got off at the Varenne station. She remembered the address she'd been invited to, and walked there. Would Gibbs and the team trace her here? Maybe. But she didn't plan on staying more than she had to; just long enough to get information.

"Welcome, young one," said Elodie, answering the bell on the second ring. "Do come up. My knees are giving me trouble today; I do not wish to try the stairs."

"Did they call you and say I might be coming?" Abby asked, sitting down to tea with her.

"Did who call, dear?"

"My, uh, people. NCIS. They'd been looking for me, and they found me last night, but I slipped away this morning. It sounds crazy, I know, but..."

Rather than answer her question, Elodie had one of her own. "Do you not trust them?"

"Yes, yes I do trust them. But—"

"But?"

"I have one thing that concerns me more than their priorities, or even my own safety. I want my—my friend back."

"This young man, McGee. Do you love him?"

"With all my heart!"

"Then you are closer to finding him than you know. It often takes passion to reach one's goals, and you, my dear, have that."

"Do you have any information; anything at all that can help me? I don't know where to start, except that he was last seen in this area..."

"And more recently than you think. My dear, he was here, right where you sit now, around 3 this morning." At Abby's astonished look, she related the entire story of Tim's wee-hour arrival with her son. "I had not called NCIS because he asked me not to. He is so very afraid, and still in danger."

"That's how I felt, too, but—"

"I am an agent, but an independent one. I make my own decisions. NCIS-Marseilles trusts that I make ones that largely follow their thinking. I do not know your team personally. I did not know if they meant your McGee harm or not. He helped my son, so I helped him. He has left, that is all I can say."

"What time did he leave? Where did he go?"

"Before dawn. I do not know where he went." Her shrewd gaze fell upon Abby's face, and Abby felt like she was being silently tested. After a minute or so, the woman nodded to herself, and then said, "I would think he would not go far. He was very tired; he wanted some place to sleep. I offered him the couch, but he refused. He said he was afraid he was bringing trouble with him. You, you I think have his interests at heart, so I am telling you this."

"Thank you. Thanks so much!" Abby gave the woman a gentle hug, and left, feeling she owed her at least a gift basket now.

- - - - -

_Somewhere close by_...Abby searched with her eyes and ears, and left her mind running as she walked...and Luck was with her. She walked through a heavily-wooded area, just a patch of ground with trees and shrubs crowded, vying for prime space. And there she saw a bit of a green shirt that she knew; a patch of familiar brown shoe; both barely visible in the protective barrier of a bush. If one hadn't been looking for them, they wouldn't have been spotted.

"_Tim!"_ she dove in; pulled him out through the tightly-woven branches. "Tim! _TIM!" _Hugging him, catching his scent, the feel of him, the confusion as he woke and the world clicked into order around him.

"Abby! ABBY!!"

They hugged, then kissed. At last he said, "Are you all right? I was so worried about you!!"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, Tim, but we've got to—"

He pushed her away, just an inch or two. "No, Abby. They're still after me, more than ever. You can't stay with me; I'm a danger magnet. Who'd have thought, right? Go—""

"_No,_ Tim! I've worked so hard to find you! I was so scared you'd been spirited out of the country! I'm not leaving you now!"

"—go to the American Embassy. Camp out there. They'll have to let you in. Call anyone you can think of. Call my parents, if you need to. They'll wire money to you for a plane ticket. Get home. That's all I want now, for you to be safe."

"What did I tell you about not playing the macho man?! Tim, we're so close to getting out of this! _Listen to me!"_

His eyes were like stagnant pools; nearly lifeless. "Abby, I'm dead already. I have no more life here. Please. Go home."

"But Tim, NCIS—" But he wasn't listening to her. She yanked him to his feet (a nice trick, since he outweighed her by more than a few pounds) and dragged him down the street with her, to an ATM. "If I go, I won't do so at least until you have some cash on you." He didn't say anything, but she saw a bit of a light in his eyes, and knew she had him.

Entering the card in the machine, she hummed and then saw the card had been declined. "Huh! I wonder why that is?" she said, partly to herself, aware that Tim was looking over her shoulder. "I'll try it again." Naturally, the card was again rejected.

Tim looked puzzled. "Are you over your daily withdrawal amount? Or overdrawn?"

"Nope and nope. I'll bet it's a glitch in the computer system—"She saw the doubt on his face, but pressed on. "Or something. Let's sit down; wait a few minutes."

"Wait? For what?"

"The sun to rise toward noon, so the ice cream vendors will be out." She kicked herself, mentally, wishing she had a filter on the first-thing-that-comes-to-mind part of her brain. But he didn't seem perturbed. He seemed...

He confirmed her suspicions by yawning and stretching. "Nice idea, but you'd do better with more nutritious food than ice cream. Particularly if money remains tight."

"Chocolate ice cream. Chocolate's nutritious," she said desperately, while thinking, _Come on, ping! Tell NCIS where we are! Send Gibbs! I don't know how much longer I can keep Tim here!_

But Tim, she then saw, had fallen back asleep. She had time. Soon she was asleep beside him.

- - - - - -

"Abby's card has pinged again!" Jenny said on Gibbs' phone. "In Invalides, near the Eiffel Tower quarter.

"Why on earth would she use the card, since we told her it'd been turned off?!"

"Either she forgot, or..."

"She's sending us a signal! On it." He clicked the phone shut. "Ziva! DiNozzo! Let's move!"

- - - - -

It was not long afterwards when she awoke; seeing Tim struggling with a man, and a second about to grab her.

"Let her go," said Tim; on his feet; his arm pinned back. "I'll go back to the lab with you."

_Oh, no!! We were so close to getting him back; now this!!_ "Please! Let him go! I'll pay you..." Dodging the man reaching for her, she pulled off her boot and removed the two rings from the hidden compartment. "These are worth a fortune. They're yours if you let us go." She didn't look at Tim; afraid his bulging eyes would make her change her mind.

The two men scrambled for the rings when she tossed them into the air, and Tim and Abby ran and ran, across a bridge into the Champ-Elysees quarter, until they could run no more. Spent at last, they ducked into a grove of trees; cooling in the warm day. It didn't occur to her to wonder how the men from the lab had found them.

"How _could_ you?!" he said to her at last. "Abby, those jewels weren't yours to give away. They belong to the Smithsonian! Besides, once I proposed selling the jewels for cash. I wasn't serious, but you were livid. Why the change?"

"I know they're not mine. But Tim, Tim, they're just _things._ Comparing them to your life—well, there's no comparison. We'll get them back, maybe. The important thing is, you're_ free."_

A truck rumbled by on the street, drowning their conversation for a minute. "No," he said when it was quiet again. _"You're_ free. Abby, if you hadn't been there, I would have gone back with them."

"But _why,_ Tim?" She was near tears again, even though yesterday she'd thought she'd run out of tears for good.

"Why?! Abby, why are you trying to pull me back? There's nothing for me back in the States. No job, no prospects, just lots of people who think I'm a liar."

"What? Who thinks you're a liar?"

"Everyone who doesn't believe I have an Eidetic memory. That includes _you,_ Abby, I'm afraid. You've never believed me. You, the one I always thought I could count on...every time I brought the subject up, you put me down. _Man,_ how that hurt!"

"Tim, I'm sorry. Let me explain, _please_..." She leaned against him, seeking solace.

And about 800 yards away, US Army Rangers Spec Ops sniper Cecily Kangas and her spotter, Paul Gergely, got into position. Kangas fingered her M-24 Sniper Weapon System rifle and sighted down the telescopic system sight, though she wasn't yet ready to fire.

"Get out of the way, girl; I don't know who you are and I don't care. I'm here just to eliminate your guy," she mumbled.


	15. Snipers

Tim broke away, and turned Abby in a fast move, 90 degrees from the tree they stood beside, aiming for a kiss. He so did not want to leave her on a sad note, although his own sorrow was trying to seize control of him. The air suddenly erupted with a _crack-boom._ Almost by instinct, he pushed her to the ground behind the tree with great force; threw himself on top of her.

"Ow! Tim! What—?"

He tried to make himself flatter to the earth; praying that his efforts would be enough. After a moment, he rolled off, but remained prone.

"Tim, that was one of_ the lamest _pick-up attempts I've ever—"

"Shhh!…And stay down!."

They were still for a minute, then two. "What just happened?" she finally asked, her voice quiet.

"Sniper. Over…" he turned a bit, and squinted as he pointed. "…that way."

"That noise? That sounded like a little sonic boom? That was a bullet?"

"That's exactly what it was. A supersonic bullet."

She gaped. "Someone's really trying to _kill_ us? Howell, do you think?"

"No, I think this is someone who knows what they're doing. Someone like Howell would have burst in here with guns blazing; all cowboy."

"So the danger's over, then!"

He didn't answer right away; listening for something.

Abby tried to get his attention. "They always say, 'One shot, one kill.' I think that's a Marine sniper motto. They took their one shot. So they'll be gone."

"Abby, when I count three, I want you to run straight that way, as fast as you can. I'll draw them off."

"Tim, I just _said_—"

"This isn't a war zone, Abby. They don't _need _ to get away right away. It's not like we're a force that can charge back at them, after having triangulated the path of the bullet—although that's not a half-bad idea; I wonder where that bullet is?"

"Tim! Focus!"

"Oh, right. Man, I'd like to spend some time working with DARPA doing defense research! They must use a lot of computer geeks like me. They developed a program called _Boomerang_ that locates snipers by analyzing the sonic shock wave, and..."

"Tim! You're stalling."

He looked at her for a long minute. "I don't want to say good-bye."

"Tim!" This came out as a quieted wail.

"They're after me, not you, as I said before. You're going to run off that way—" He pointed ahead. "And I'll go that way. Ninety degrees off. They'll follow me, not you."

"Well," she said, "I don't know who's after you. But I can help you out at least with this—" She gave him the five remaining Metro tickets and the credit card; pressed them into his hand and folded his fingers over them.

"Abby! I can't take your credit card! You'll need it!"

"I still have cash left. You don't have any. Use it, as soon as you get a safe distance away. Some place where...once you get the money, you can sit down and relax for awhile."

"Jeez. I don't know, Abby. It feels like I'm robbing you. And how will I ever get the card back to you?!"

"I'm holding you to returning it to me in person. Tim, I just _know_ that you'll come through this okay because you're..." _come on brain, give me something plausible and brilliant_... "so smart, and such a great agent. I _insist_ that you come back alright, Timothy!" She hugged him and kissed him, hard. _I won't cry in front of him, I won't_...

Then after one last gaze at each other, they scrambled off through the trees on their different ways. Abby heard one more crack, and looked back. Tim was still running; okay for now.

- - - - -

Using a couple of her Euro coins, Abby bought a _Metro_ ticket at the Champ-Elysees/Clemenceau station. It would take a couple of changes of _Metro_ lines, but she wasn't willing to pay for a taxi. She only hoped the team would still be at the hotel when she got back. If all went according to plan, she'd soon be reunited with Tim.

In fact, Tony and Gibbs were steps in front of her when she turned a corner heading for the hotel; Gibbs on his phone. She ran forward and grabbed their hands, causing Tony to jump and hug her before she could hug him; Gibbs, however, looked furious. "I'll have to call you back," he said to the phone, and, snatching her from Tony and pinning her arm behind her, he marched her up to her hotel room. When Tony opened the door, Ziva jumped up from her chair, but didn't say anything because of Gibbs' expression.

Gibbs shoved Abby into the room's other chair. "What the _hell_ was that all about?! I imagine you thought you could find McGee all by yourself?!"

"Yes," she said in a small voice. "And I did. Well, with a _little_ help."

He did a double take. "You did?! You know where he's being held?!"

"He's not. He's free. He escaped with the help of some spy and that's how I found him. But he's on the run, Gibbs; he wouldn't let me go with him, and someone shot at us! A sniper!"

"Where, Abby? Where?!" Tony and Ziva had pounced on a map of Paris before Gibbs finished speaking.

"In the _Champs-Elysees_ area. But he's not there now; he ran in another direction. But Gibbs, Gibbs, we can find him! I gave him my credit card and told him to use it when he got away! We can follow the ping to him!" She sat back, looking pleased, then saw the shock on the others' faces. "What?"

"Abby," Gibbs said slowly, "we're not the only ones getting the pings. I don't know everyone who's after McGee, but we do know the Army is one of them."

"The Army?!"

"To prevent him from defecting. The snipers are from the Army. They were spotted moving in a few days ago."

Breaths wouldn't come to her. "And my card will tell them where he is..."

- - - - -

Gergeley sighted the target, but Tim was fast; zigzagging, and obstructed frequently by trees and almost out of range now. Kangas glanced at her partner. _Continue?_ He shook his head, and she started packing up their equipment. They'd find him again. Gergeley relayed the information to the other sniper team by the SINCGARS system while using his cap to fan his face with the other hand. It was hot in France for September.

"They're south of here," Gergeley said to Kangas. "Charlton and Savard. If McGee heads their way, they'll be ready."

"You think he will? Go that way?"

"If he doubles back to follow the girl, yes. Savard tracked the NCIS people to a hotel in the _Saint-Germain-des-Pres_ area. He'll probably wait until dark to join them. We have to get him before he gets to them."

"Yeah. Who knows who he's contacted here? Probably made all kinds of deals with one of the enemies. Anyway, it's not our job to judge."

- - - - -

Tim tore through the door of the Franklin D. Roosevelt _Metro_ station, and then forced himself to slow down. He didn't want to draw attention to himself. _Just keep distance between myself and whoever's shooting at me, and I'll be okay. Long term_... But he couldn't think long term, no matter how hard he tried.

_I need to start my life over; maybe in another country_..._if there's work I can do that wouldn't be for their military or their government. _

_I'd like a job that would use my Eidetic memory_...

_I wish I'd never learned that I have an Eidetic memory._ _If only I could turn the clock back_...

He didn't need to consult the complicated _Metro_ system map on the station's wall; he could see it all in his mind. Some of the stations were a little hard to 'read' because the map he had memorized had small type, and the French names were often unfamiliar, but he could make do. The _Montmartre_ area, north of central Paris by a bit, in the 18th _arrondissement,_ appealed to him. He hoped that what he'd heard of it—the steep _butte_ (hill) and winding streets—would offer him some shelter. Besides, the more room he put between the snipers and Abby—_How it hurts to think of her, when I'll probably never see her again—_the better.

At the Abbesses station, he left the _Metro,_ stopping to look behind him at the station's _art nouveau_ design; green wrought iron arches and amber lights. He began the climb up the _butte_. The narrow, curving, sloping streets were a refreshing change after the bustle of central Paris.

The _butte_ was topped by the magnificent _Sacre-Coeur_ basilica; gleaming white in the sunlight. Tim fleetingly wished that he could go inside as a tourist, but he hadn't as much as a _sou_ in his pocket. _Well, wait; there is Abby's credit card, and she did insist I use it_..._if I come out of this alive, somehow, I'll pay you back every cent, Abbs_...

He found an ATM and inserted the card; puzzling through the instructions. _I wish I spoke more than a smattering of French_...He entered the PIN, remembering that Abby had said it was his birthday. But the card came up _rejeter_ as it had with Abby. He tried again, with the same result. _Well, maybe tomorrow_...

She'd said to sit down and relax once he had the money. He had no money, but there was not much else he could do besides sit down and relax. It was getting on to 3 o'clock; in a few hours it would be dark. There was a thick wood on the east side of the basilica; he should be able to hide out there. Stretching out by a tree, choosing shade over sun on this warm day, he settled down and tried to relax. At some point he really would have to force himself to do that long-term thinking.

- - - - -

"Jethro, you said to let you know the instant I heard of a ping..."

"Yeah, Jen. Go."

"It's some distance from you. The _Montmartre_ area, on Paris' north edge. The ATM McGee tried it at is on the Rue Azais, just across from the _Sacre-Coeur_ basilica. Take a taxi; it'll be much faster than the changes you'd have to make on the _Metro."_

"Thanks. We're off!" He and Tony ran; leaving Ziva to keep Abby under the commando's version of lock-and-key, and praying that the Army wasn't closer to _Montmartre_ than they were.

- - - - -

Some sense told Tim to hide himself better. He edged through the woods, soon finding a tree with branches low enough so he could climb it. Doing so, he went up about 20 feet, and stayed as still as his could, hoping his now-rather-battered green shirt would camouflage him.

Movement below. Off to the right; barely visible...must be the snipers! His heart sank. _Go away, go away; don't look up_...

They didn't. He could just make them out as two people in camouflage; carrying rifles and backpacks. Snipers, all right. _Keep going, keep going_...

When they had gone out of sight, Tim climbed down from the tree, as quietly as he could. On the ground, he peered around the tree, exposing as little of himself as he could. No sign of them, no sign, good...

_No!_ There was movement, again. A slight disturbance, like a hat being waved. And there, something white or silvery in a patch of sunlight. Like...gray hair...

_No. No._ But it all made sense now; horrible, almost unthinkable, sense.

_NCIS wanted me gone. I know that. They fired me when I didn't show up at Intel. I know that. They somehow traced me to France, and, like everyone else, thinks I've gone rogue. They must think I'll give up classified military material, too._

_Of course. With my memory, I can probably call up every case I've ever worked on; lots of classified stuff there. I'm definitely a liability._

_And they've sent someone after me who knows me as well as, or better than, I know myself. Someone determined to kill me. _

_A former Marine sniper-scout; by all accounts really good at what he did._

_Gibbs._

- - - - -

Gibbs fumed in the taxi; wishing he had brought along French-speaking Ziva instead of Tony. No amount of their gesturing and limited French could make the driver to go as fast asthey wanted her to go.

At last they were in Montmartre, and the driver pulled up by the basilica. "Now what?" Tony asked. "Should we split up?"

"Let's check the area around here, first. Abby encouraged him to 'relax' by the ATM, in hopes we'd catch up with him before he moved on." They started walking on the nearby streets.

- - - - -

Tim ran. _He knows me too well; he knows everything I'd do; every decision I'd make._ It hurt, it hurt so much to think that someone he'd so respected and trusted would turn against him like this. _But from his point of view, Gibbs must think that _I'm_ the one who has turned against _him.

- - - - -

Kangas took a sighting, after Gergeley gave her his readings. They knew from the information provided them from the DOD that McGee was 2.027 yards tall. She lined the target up in the reticle, the crosshairs of her scope. The scope's mil dot size showing up for him as he ran was a neat 4. This made him 506.75 yards away. Wind was picking up here in the high elevation; they'd have to allow for holdoff, as well as McGee's movement. She took aim...

- - - - -

McGee heard the _crack-boom_ at nearly the same moment as he felt the impact in his arm. He cried out and fell in the cobblestone street. _Come on, Tim! Get up! Keep moving! Find shelter!_ Clutching his arm, he staggered up, and made it around a corner, just steps away. He stood, panting for a few minutes, feeling the blood running out, escaping though his fingers. _No time to make a bandage; got to get away_...

_He'll track me_...

He ran and ran; his steps often becoming stumbles. _Abby_...

Stairs; so many stairs going down from one street to another on the Rue de Mont Cenis. He charged down these, trying to weave and make himself less of a target. _Crack-boom!_ But this one missed. Tim didn't stop. _Keep going Keep going Keep going Keep going Keep going Keep going Keep going_...

He kept on; turning down one street, up another, in through cafes and out their terraced exits, until at last, coming into a little park, he had no more breath left in him. _Maybe this is it_...

Staggering now, he rounded a small building, like a shed. And there he saw them, heading his way but not yet spotting him, Gibbs and Tony. Just yards away.

He couldn't keep from quaking. Somehow, in all the times in his life that he imagined his demise, he never thought it would be deliberate, at the hands of people he knew.

It was so hard to breathe. Not that he'd be breathing much longer.

They looked his way then. With his last strength, he raised his hands in surrender, hoping that they'd make it a quick end.


	16. Reassurance

"Please." Tim could hardly get the words out._ "Please,_ make it fast." His raised hands trembled; Death approaching.

"_McGee!_ What—?!"

"I know NCIS thinks I'm, I'm a liability. I know you've been following me, and I know as a sniper you're just doing your job..." He was still shaking, but whether from fear or from pain, he couldn't tell. _Doesn't matter; it's almost over_...

Realization lit the faces of the other two men. Tony turned his head away, sickened. Tim noticed this, and choked, figuring Tony didn't want to witness the execution.

Tim saw Gibbs studying him, silently. Then Gibbs slowly walked toward him, passed him by, went around behind him, and stopped. _He'll use a handgun, then_, Tim thought, and closed his eyes.

But the next thing he felt was not a gun barrel against his head; rather, the slap of a hand, gently applied.

"McGee! You've done well getting yourself this far. But, boy, you've come to a few wrong conclusions. Put your hands down, dammit; I'm not your sniper!"

"You're...not?"

"Of course not! For one thing..._Hey! _You've been _hit!"_ He cursed himself for not noticing the upper-arm wound earlier. "DiNozzo, find a pharmacy—"

"On it!"

Gibbs got Tim to sit down, propped up by a tree and out of the hot sun, though he could see that the young agent was still fearful; unconvinced. He got Tim to relax enough to allow him to apply pressure to the wound to stop the bleeding. _How did he get so spooked?_ Gibbs wondered as he crouched at Tim's side._ Abby was like this, terrified, when we found her, and we still haven't heard her full story, I don't think._

Tony returned and started bandaging the wound. "Yow! Was it your sniper that hit you, Probie? 'Cause that sucker must've been going at over..." He then thought better about estimating the speed of the bullet, or at least voicing it; Tim looked gray enough. The exit wound was even uglier than the entry wound; cone-like with residual comminution particles black and menacing in appearance around the cavitation.

_Probie_...Tim smiled a bit at that; it seemed almost nice to hear that word again. Comforting; a name from another time. _Strange to think that I once hated it so much_...

"Morrison? We've got McGee back. He's a little banged up, though. Do you have a contact, a doctor we can use? We're in _Montmartre._ I don't want to go to a hospital; not secure enough."

"I follow you," Morrison said on the phone. "And congratulations on McGee. I do have a doctor you can use—are you going right now?"

"Yep. Nothing holding us here."

Morrison gave a name and an address. Gibbs then asked if Morrison had any connection to the Army, to see about calling them off."

"The Army?! What are they—" Tim started, but Tony waved him to silence.

"Wish I did. You'd best work through Shepard on that. I'll have my people continue to watch their movements, but my advice to you is to get McGee home as soon as is feasible. I'll call the doc for you now; tell him you're on the way."

Pocketing his phone, Gibbs eyed Tim. He should call Jen, but he wanted answers before they did anything else. "McGee, why did you think I was your sniper?"

"Well, uh..." Tim wasn't sure now. Eidetic memory didn't help one remember paths driven to conclusions. "I saw two snipers, carrying rifles and gear, in camouflage. And one removed his hat, and I thought I saw gray hair. And you were a Marine sniper-scout..."

"McGee, are DiNozzo and I wearing camouflage?"

"Uh, no..."

"Do you see any rifles, or other gear, on us?"

"Uh, no..."

"Boss, we'd better take cover," Tony interrupted. "If the Army's still out there, looking for McGee—"

"Yeah," Gibbs said over Tim's astonished look. _Oh, Lord; is he going to run again?_ "I think the doc's office is just around that corner. Then we should get dinner. Have you eaten today, McGee?...Didn't think so."

After the doctor treated Tim's wound and put the arm in a sling, they had dinner at a nearby cafe. The offerings of _carpaccio de saumon, briques de chèvre chaude_ and _ravioles de Royan et parmesan_ were well received, as was the _crème brulée_ for dessert. Tim dug in, ravenous, though not sure he could trust Gibbs and Tony. In fact, he was sure he couldn't. After all, he no longer worked for NCIS...

"Why are you two here?" Tim asked as they finished the meal and were waiting in the foyer for the taxi that would take them back to central Paris. "If you're not snipers...are you going to get rid of me another way?" His voice was barely above a whisper. Gibbs could see that Tim looked ready to bolt. Carefully, Gibbs got between Tim and the door, and saw that Tony was slightly behind Tim, positioned to cut off any rear escape.

"We came after you because you'd disappeared!" said Tony, surprised that he had to say it. "When you and Abby didn't show up for work a week and a half ago...You're part of the _team._ Why _wouldn't_ we look for you?!"

"But...I must've been fired! I never showed up for my new job at Intel. Why would you follow me, after that, unless NCIS thought I was going to defect...but I would _never_ do that; _never!!"_

Gibbs swore. "I _knew_ I should've called Jenny, first thing." Out came the phone again. "Jen. Good news! We have our second lost lamb back. He's fine; he's been winged, but he'll be okay. But I need you to convince him that he hasn't been fired; he doesn't believe us." He held the phone out so Tim could hear.

"Hello, McGee. Good to hear that you're safe at last! We've been looking for you ever since you vanished. And heavens, no; you haven't been fired. We'd learned that you were in circumstances beyond your control."

"Thanks, ma'am! That's a relief! I promise, when I get back, I'll go straight to Intel, and—"

"Jen, tell him he's not working for Intel now, and never has been."

"McGee, you've never really been assigned to Intel. It was all a ruse. Gibbs will fill you in."

"Whew!"

"Jen, tell him he's still a part of my team."

A brief pause. "You're stuck with Gibbs, McGee. I'm sorry."

Tim looked stunned for a moment, then broke out in helpless laughter at the Director's choice of words; nearly banging his sling-bound arm against the door frame as he doubled over. Tony joined in; Gibbs looked mildly offended, as the situation demanded.

"Jen, can you call off the Army? Tell them to pack up their troubles in their old kit bags and smile, smile, smile? It's bad enough that they winged McGee; I don't want them thinking they still have license to do whatever just because we're not Stateside yet."

"I'll do that right now. Don't let him out of your custody, though, just in case. Call me when you've fixed your return trip plans."

"Will do." He ended the call, and turned to Tim. "Are you convinced now that we're on your side?"

"Yes...I just want to get back home, and...back to work."

"Good," said Gibbs, enveloping Tim in a tight hug. He heard Tim start to sob, and wished he could let loose a few tears of his own. But Gibbs was too happy: his team was whole again.

- - - - -

When they returned to the hotel, Abby greeted them with a shriek loud enough to be heard all the way back to Montmartre. _"TimTimTimTimTimTimTimTim!!!!"_ She hugged him, spun him around, and planted little kisses all over his face. "Oh, Tim, I _knew_ you'd come back!!!"

"Well, sure," he said, digging into his pocket. "You made me promise to return your credit card in person."

She smiled; enjoying his sense of humor; enjoying everything that made up him. "Oh, I love you," she said, gazing into his eyes; loving the way he returned her smile.

Tony and Ziva exchanged glances. Clearly, there was much story they hadn't yet heard. And they would get it out of Tim and Abby, one way or another. Tony was gleeful.

Gibbs hung up the room phone. "A busboy will be up with a key for the room next door," he said. "Though McGee, maybe you shouldn't be alone..."

"Oh, he won't be alone," Abby said quickly, wrapping her arm around Tim. "Sorry, Ziva. I'm switching rooms!" She got a kick out of seeing the others' expressions.

"Just as well," Ziva muttered. "She kept talking in her sleep last night; something about hearing a spider's footsteps."

- - - - -

They'd arrived back far too late to do anything at the American embassy; Monday would be the earliest time that they could apply for replacement passports for Tim and Abby. The next morning, Saturday, found Abby with her henna-colored hair up in ponytails and neck scarf gone; so happy she was to have Tim back, she was ready to head back to normalcy. Gibbs brought in breakfast early; then, with Ziva, took Abby to the central police station, where she blankly testified that she had no idea why Howell and Finch would think she had any of the jewels. The policed searched her, found no jewels, and shrugged. When the trio returned to the hotel, Tony and Abby then went out shopping for clothes; Abby for herself, and Tony for Tim. Tim was still looking pale, so Gibbs ordered him to stay in and rest.

Abby came back wearing a t-shirt of skeletons in full petticoats dancing the cancan at the _Folies Bergere, _and a new short skirt, with another outfit in a bag; thanks to the Bank of NCIS, as she called Gibbs' NCIS VISA card. (Of course they'd have to pay the agency back.) Tim was surprised and pleased that Tony hadn't gotten him anything with fringes, rhinestones, or other outlandishness; instead, bringing two nicely tailored shirts and a pair of slacks.

"Y'know, Probie, I just can't get used to you with black hair. I'd really rather see black hair and green eyes on Abby," Tony remarked as Tim changed clothes.

"You and me both," said Tim, with a laugh. "I don't suppose you picked up any brown hair dye when you were out?"

"Gotta live with it a few more days, McGee," Gibbs grinned. "The Director wants to see you and Abby in these hair colors; just to see it for herself. Then—back to the way you were."

"I think you're freaking him out, McGee," Tony laughed, and picked up the room phone when it rang. "Yeah, _Bonjour. __Je ne parle pas français_..._" _

"_Monsieur_ McGee," said the voice on the other end. "You left us..._unexpectedly_ the night before last. We are certain it was all a misunderstanding; we do have your best interests at heart." Tony beckoned frantically to Gibbs to come close and listen in; Tim did so, too.

"Go on," Tony said, altering his voice a tad to make it sound more like Tim's. "How did you find me here?"

"We have our resources, just as the other side does. Come work for us and share in our success! We promise you opportunities not available to you in America. We are on the, ah, cutting edge of eidetics research and applications; you will have a lab with the most impressive equipment you can imagine. Surely you realize that this is what you were meant for; not the shame and disgrace your own country has put on you..."

"You're wrong..." Tony said.

"Are we? Then why is the United States Army out to kill you, if they are not afraid of what you could do with your superior memory? We are just beginning to study the possibilities; we will share all this knowledge with you, and more. Just come back and work with us. You will be happy, and wealthy, beyond your dreams. Vacation in the most popular spots on earth: we will give you plenty of vacation time. Visits to your family? Why not, as long as the U.S. lets you back in?" He chuckled. "And if they do not, no matter, just fly your family and friends in to see you. You will be able to afford it, and much more.

"Accept it, _Monsieur_ McGee. This is your talent; a talent that no one else living is believed to have. And your government would rather kill one of its citizens than let any one make use of this talent. Is that the government you really want to work for?"

"Yes!"

"Maybe this will persuade you. We have learned that your friend Henri convinced you to, ah, escape from us. He will be dealt with."

"Do not listen to them, McGee!" said another voice, and Tim winced. Henri, his rescuer, without a doubt.

Tony read Tim's face. "What do you want me to do?" Gaining information never committed one to anything.

"If you come back to work for us, we will let Henri live. Meet me tonight at the Eiffel Tower, first platform, at 10 o'clock." The phone clicked off.

"Absolutely not!" Gibbs said to Tim. "Don't even ask. You're not going anywhere _near_ the Eiffel Tower!"

"Boss, Henri is the guy who got me out of that compound," Tim said, sighing. "He saved my life. I owe him."

"The rest of us can—"

"No. They'll be looking for_ me."_

"Dammit; McGee; you're getting some brave and noble idea about even going back to work for that group if it'll rescue that guy! I can see it on your face!" Tony snapped. _"Don't do it!!"_

"Tony, I'm not being brave and noble. I'm just doing the right thing," Tim sighed again, his eyes already looking dull. "Sometimes sacrifices have to be made."

"Not by you! Not this time! We just got you back!!" He looked at Gibbs, helpless.

"Henri—"

"Henri is a spy. He knew what he was getting into when he signed on," said Gibbs. "You're a special agent; not a spy. McGee, if I have to handcuff you to keep you here..."

"Oooo, did someone say handcuffs?" Abby asked, skipping into the room. "Tim and handcuffs? Oooooo...!"

Tim ignored that, fighting the urge to smile. "No, we were talking about the Eiffel Tower. You must have misheard."

"The Eiffel Tower?! _Yes!!_ We all must go and see it! And climb it! How can anyone go to Paris and not climb the Eiffel Tower?!" Abby danced in delight. "Tim, are you going to be well enough to go?"

"I'm going," he said firmly. "I'm aiming for 10 o'clock tonight. I hear the light show is fabulous."

Gibbs stared him down, but Tim was unflinching. _Damn him and his noble ideas._ "We're all going. We'll get an early dinner." _And if you think you're going to get more than a foot away from me, McGee, you can think again._


	17. The Eiffel Tower

The plan had been that they would have a relaxing day, and then go to the Eiffel Tower late. Tony, however, inveigled them, in his own Tony-ish way, to make a stop before the Tower.

"You'll _love_ this," he said as they came out of the pedestrian tunnel on the north side of the Champs Elysées and stood before the famed _Arc de Triomphe de l'Etoile,_ at the _Place du Général de Gaulle._ "It's 164 feet high, and the view from the top is _great._ And there's a surprise."

Only because Tony had been so insistent that they visit the _Arc, _Napoleon's great tribute to his victorious army, did Gibbs allow the expedition. Why would anyone want to climb the steps here _and_ then climb the Eiffel Tower on the same night was beyond him. But he knew that his team deserved, and needed, a little fun. It might also take their minds off the tension-filled unknown; the 10 o'clock rendezvous with Tim's would-be "employer" at the Eiffel Tower.

Seen at night, the _Arc_ was a wealth of gold and bronze; beautiful even right here at the base, and the flickering torch that symbolized the unknown soldier was impressive. It was half-past 7 on a fine, warm night with a flirty soft kiss of a breeze; they'd have time to go to the top of the _Arc_ in a leisurely fashion, see the view, and get over to the Eiffel Tower by 10. _" 'You shall go home beneath triumphal arches,' "_ Ziva, looking awed, quoted Napoleon.

"You're sure you don't want the elevator?" Gibbs said to Tim. "There's a small one. We could—"

"It's for disabled people and people with strollers," said Tim, firmly. "I'm not in either category. I don't mind climbing the stairs."

"There's 286 of them," Gibbs said, extending a last chance out, but Tim shook his head. "Fine, then," Gibbs sighed. "You set the pace for us, Tim."

They paid the 8 Euros each admission fee and climbed the narrow, curving, dizzying staircase. About two-thirds of the way up, they stopped at the museum level for a rest, called by Tony, who said he needed to catch his breath. They all agreed that a few minute's rest would be a good thing; though not mentioning this was based on seeing Tim's pale face.

When they climbed the final set of stairs to the top, the view was indeed grand. Twelve streets converged at the _Place du Général de Gaulle; _a star shape, giving rise to the name _l'Etoile_. The city gleamed before them; each street seemingly vying for their attention. But it was the Champs Elysées itself that was the prettiest: broad, lights twinkling, so nicely designed; the smaller _Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel _aglow at the other end.

"This is the neat trick," said Tony, standing at one barrier wall. "Ziva, am I lined up right?" He bent over a little, and held his hands out, like he was cupping something.

Ziva studied him, then smiled in understanding. "Move ahead one step…That's it! Perfect!"

The others grinned. Due to a trick in perspective, Tony appeared to be supporting the distant Eiffel Tower in his hands.

Gibbs took pictures, and then they all had to get in the act. Abby "held" the tower by its peak, while Tim "supported" the base. Gibbs grabbed it mid-center. Ziva grabbed one of the base points, grinning like she was about to twist it off.

They were reluctant to leave The view over the city of romance was delightful, and. the team didn't know what awaited them at the Tower. Gibbs forced Tim into the elevator and took it down with him; the others came down the stairs quickly; still full of energy.

- - - - -

It being Saturday, and weather splendid, the Eiffel Tower was hosting an abundance of visitors. The group became part of the crowd, a few steps up, at the ticket platform. There elevator tickets were purchased for Gibbs, Tony, and Tim, while Abby and Ziva bought the lesser-priced stair tickets, vowing to climb all the way up. _"We are women, hear us roar!"_ Abby laughed.

"You are plain nuts, is what you are," said Tony. "I once climbed to the top of the Cologne cathedral in Germany…509 steps. Fantastic view of the city, and the cathedral is really something. You'd like it, Abbs—totally gothic, in the older sense of the word. I was younger then, but after coming back down, my legs felt like rubber bands for _days_ afterwards."

The line for the red elevator that would travel up the Tower diagonally was longer than that for the stairs. Abby and Ziva set off for the first set of steps, 328 in number, vowing to meet the others on the first platform. The Tower was a lit to a beautiful, orangey-yellow. Nine o'clock came, and the crowd cheered as thousands of yellow lights began to flicker and strobe swiftly in an impressive display. _On-off-on-off-off-on_…that didn't begin to describe the show.

"Pretty cool," said Tony. "I didn't see that when I was last here. Not exactly binary; more complicated than that. You agree, Probie?...McGee?"

Tim appeared to be in a trance; staring at the lights. Gibbs and Tony met eyes. Gibbs grabbed Tim by the shoulder of his good arm and shook him, lightly, as the lights returned to steady-on.

"There's…there's something in the lights," Tim said, eyes still a little vacant.

"Okay, McGeek; I've been ragging you about your computer mind for years, but this is taking it too far. You _are not_ reading anything in the lights. Do you hear me?! That's impossible!"

Squinting, and then closing his eyes, Tim said, "You're right, Tony. I must have just spaced out for a minute."

"Well, don't do it again! It was downright hinky, how you looked!"

Tim gave him a little smile, attempting to be reassuring.

Gibbs felt anything but reassured. _What is he really thinking?_ At last they were at the front of the line for the elevator, and scrambled up to the upper level of the double-decker car.

The view was outstanding. One could almost forget the feeling of being tenuously attached to the framework. The ride was all too short, and they piled out at the first platform. Ziva and Abby, their inner batteries still apparently full, bounded up to them. _"Beat you! Beat you! Hah!"_ Abby cried, swirling around Tim until he became dizzy looking at her. _And she hasn't had a single Caf-Pow! in almost two weeks!_

_Eleven minutes to ten._ Gibbs cursed the time they had lost in the line for the elevators. He signaled Tony and Ziva to search the perimeter for troublemakers, while keeping Tim and Abby with him.

"What are they looking for?" Abby asked. "And why are we stopping here? I want to go up to the second level." She jogged in place. When Gibbs didn't reply right away, and Tim was likewise closed-mouthed, she stopped and stared at them. "What's going on? Gibbs, what are you hiding from me?"

They hadn't told Abby about it; not knowing how her mercurial nature would take the latest threat to Tim. "Abby," Gibbs said finally, a hand on her shoulder, "There may be trouble. If necessary, I want you to be prepared to run back down the stairs, and get yourself back to the hotel. Can you do that? Do you have enough money for a taxi?"

"Yes, and I think so, but Gibbs, what is the trouble? Can I help?"

Though it wasn't ten yet, the Tower lights started flashing, but in a noticeably new pattern, with more darkness between the flashes. The crowd cheered, though some, perhaps regular visitors, looked surprised and spoke rapidly to each other. They appeared to think something was amiss. Tim had gone spacey again. While Abby tried to get his attention, Gibbs used his phone to call Tony and Ziva back.

As Tony and Ziva ran up in the confusion, Gibbs, Tim and Abby were approached by four men, including Tim's rescuer of a few days ago, the spy, Henri. Henri's hands were tied behind his back. "Ah, _Monsieur_ McGee. Thank you for being prompt," said the apparent compound director (whose name Tim had never caught). He was well-turned out in an expensive suit; likewise, fine glasses fronted his piercing eyes.

"He's not alone, this time," growled Gibbs.

Shrugging, the man only said, "I am pleased to meet his NCIS co-workers. I am sure you will wish him well on his new opportunity."

The lights stopped flashing. It was two minutes to ten. Tim sagged, and Tony and Abby jumped to prop him up. "In the lights," Tim said, his tongue feeling furry. _What is happening to my mind?_ "Message...something in the lights..."

Gibbs glared at the man. "Is this your doing? Some sort of hypnotic effect in the lights?"

"Oh, no, no, _no,_ Agent Gibbs," the man smiled cheerfully. "I am not even a Frenchman. How would I go about getting control of the light system of one of France's greatest monuments?"

"You're awfully chipper for someone who is attempting to kidnap a U.S. citizen," Tony snapped. "Not that we're going to allow that to happen."

"Who said anything about kidnapping?" the man smiled, even greater. "All we're doing is making a simple business deal. _Monsieur_ McGee will come to work for us out of his own, free will. We have broken no laws here. There is nothing you can call the police on. Think about our offer, _Monsieur_ McGee."

The crowd was chanting softly, awaiting the 10 o'clock light show.

It came in a rush of violence: Not the normal show, but one of lights pulsing, arcing, snaking up the struts and spars, veering off again like wild things, only to double back and attack in greater ferocity. The crowd screamed, and many ran for the stairs, fearing that perhaps collapse of the Tower in this mad discharge of electricity was imminent. Tim became stiff, eyes unfocused, breathing hard.

"Abby! What I said earlier! _GO!"_ Gibbs cried to her, and gave her a push in the direction of the stairs.

"Not so fast. She might be a bargaining chip," said Tim's prospective employer. One of his goons seized her, and before the team could react, had hustled her to the nearest barrier, picked her up, and pushed her over it.

Her screams drowned out everything else for them. Tony flew to the barricade and peered over, expecting the unthinkable. But Abby was still screaming, still alive, incredibly, clinging by her hands only to the framework slanting outward that had broken her fall, about 30 feet down. _"TONY!!!"_ she shrieked, her feet not finding grips. _"TONY, HELP ME!!!"_

"_I'm coming, Abbs! Don't worry!" _he called, though he was not sure how he'd get her. Off with his shoes, first of all. He needed his feet to anchor in places. No time to search for a rope or other rescue equipment. Carefully, he stepped over the barrier, and began climbing down, trying not to think that he was 311 feet in the air.

On the platform, Ziva had already pinned one the man who'd thrown Abby off the Tower like so much refuse. The leader smiled ruefully. "Subordinates," he said to Gibbs. "They sometimes get...over-enthusiastic."

"Your subordinate just earned himself a prison sentence," Gibbs said, inches away from his face. "You'd better pray that we can rescue Abby."

"No! There's worse!" Tim said, his head feeling like chariots were being driven through it. _Why am I the only one affected?!_ "He's done...something...to the light show...there's a message in the lights..." He was almost at the point of hyperventilating. "Patterns...no, formulas...I know them, I know them, I've seen them before..." Numbers ran through his mind, nearly as fast, maybe even as fast as some of the computer programs he'd seen dancing in mad abandon on his screens back at NCIS. "Formula, no, picture, no, yes, picture, yes, yes, it's a _bomb! A neutron bomb!_ And it's planted on the, _the underside of the Tower!"_

The leader smiled coldly. "Yes, we know about your bomb-disarming skills, Officer David. But we would never let you get into position in time. It's in a very awkward location. This will be _au revoir_ for a large portion of the inhabitants of Paris, I'm afraid."

She spat. "For someone who claimed he hadn't broken any laws, you've just confessed to several violations."

Again the cocky smile. "What is it the Americans say: 'So sue me'? I am a businessman. I do what is expedient. _Monsieur_ McGee, this is a taste of what _might_ be. You still have time to affect the outcome. What will your answer be?"

Tim was still fighting with the visions. It was well past 10:10, and still the fearsome, all-encompassing hell-hounds of light continued, savaging the minds of the Tower visitors. Over their cries of terror, as they thundered down the stairs, shoving, panicking, sirens could be heard as nearly every police car in the city converged on the Tower.

He could hardly see straight; and was dimly aware that something terrible had happened to Abby. Something he could have prevented. He fought against the vision of numbers and formulas that lead to that horrid, horrid, bomb, and he sought Henri's eyes; linked a message with them.

"Okay, okay, call your stunts off," he said. "I'll go with you. Sorry, boss. Sorry you came all this way for nothing."

"_Tim! NO!"_ Gibbs and Ziva both cried.

Tim walked over to the leader, and then inches away, launched himself at him, injured arm and all. "Get away!" Henri barked, the loose ropes falling from his hands. Tim dodged to the left, butting one of the other men, while the remaining man pulled out his gun and mowed the leader down; the gunshot sounds sending the last holdouts on the platform for the stairs. There were shouts of police trying to get up the stairs through the residual fleeing folks; frustrated, and finding the elevators not working, either.

Gibbs tried to make sense of it all. Clearly there was one more person on their side, besides Henri. Time to worry about that, later. He left Ziva and a shaky Tim, along with Henri and his gun-toting companion, in charge of the leader and the other man. He was confident they were up for the task.

The Tower went dark with a great sigh of machinery. They were too high up to be graced by city light pollution; only the strong moonlight gave them any sense of presence. Gibbs pelted for the barrier. Tony and Abby were trying to make progress, he a bit below her and guiding her in a calm, soothing tone. But they were still almost 20 feet short of the barrier. "Tony!" Gibbs called. "What do you need?"

"Some light would be really nice, boss," Tony called back. "None of that crazy, demonic disco stuff that was going on, though. I need something to home in on."

Gibbs flicked his hand into his pocket and drew out his rented cell phone. Turned on, its face shimmered a cool blue-green; a small band around it glowed white. "Will this do?"\

"Perfect! Just hold 'er steady..." With that, he and Abby began to climb again.

"There's still the bomb," Tim breathed to Henri and Henri's friend. "I don't know when it's going to go off..."

"It will not now," said the friend. "I developed it, I have had the controls all along. They were foolish enough to think I was really on their side."

"But it's a real bomb?" Tim asked. The formulas he had 'seen' wouldn't lie.

"Oh, yes. I take pride in my work."

_And that's why I'm glad to be a special agent, and not a spy. _Tim wasn't overly surprised when the man, asked for his name, only would say that he was 'a friend'. _I think every third person in France must be on Morrison's payroll._

The lights came on again, low and flickering , as if in brownout condition, just as the police gained the first platform. Ziva ran to help Gibbs pull Tony and Abby back over the barrier. Tim spun to keep track of that, and Henri and the friend's seizure of the assailants. His head ached fiercely.

Abby, being a survivor-type, bounced back quickly when back safely on the platform. She ran to Tim for a comforting hug (bypassing even Gibbs!), and collared the first _gendarme_ she came to. "Search this man!" she ordered, indicating the one Henri held captive. "He has two rings that were stolen from the Smithsonian Museum in America!"

_Ah, yes._ Tim hadn't had time to think about the leader's companions while the lights were steamrolling messages through his brain. Abby was right, though; he was one of the two who had jumped for the tossed rings...yesterday? Day before that? His eidetic memory couldn't relate dates and time any better than anyone else's. It didn't work that way.

A policeman in plain clothes appeared to be greeting Henri like an old friend, scarcely noticing the leader's body. Henri was destined to keep on spying, it seemed.

"Let's go," said Gibbs, after having conferred with Henri and his spy friend. "I think that's enough excitement for one evening."

"But...but...this is only the _first_ level," Abby complained. "My ticket is good for—"

"We're all heading back to the hotel, Abbs," Gibbs said, giving her a lopsided smile. "How about I put you in charge of keeping McGee propped up? He looks wan, still."

"Yeah, well, so would you, if you saw a bomb fixed to the nether regions of the Eiffel Tower," Tim muttered.

"Good point. Next time Abby goes over the edge, I'll send Ziva to get her. She can do the rescue _and_ disarm the bomb."

"I can do that," Ziva said, studying her fingernails with satisfaction.

"What? My rescue wasn't good enough for you?" Tony groused.

"It was _perfect,"_ Abby said, hugging him around the neck. "Thank you!! But I have my assignment now, and I aim to carry it out." She hugged Tim to her, and then with one arm around him firmly, lovingly, they lead the party to the stairs.


	18. Memories

After the uneventful return from the Eiffel Tower, Abby and Tim fell onto their hotel room bed, emotionally exhausted. Tim took some ibuprofen, hoping it would tame his headache and the insistent throb in his wounded arm. _If only it would clear up some of the light demons that skulk in the corners of my mind..._

" 'What a long, strange trip it's been', " Abby quoted, and tickled Tim's side lightly; causing him to smile a little.

He sat up. "Abby...you started to say something yesterday, and we were interrupted." He stopped, not sure at all that he'd like the answer if he asked the question.

"Hmmm? What did I say?" She was more interested in looking into his eyes than talking.

"It was about everyone thinking I was a liar about having an eidetic memory. I said..." he didn't want to say it now, it sounded almost cruel at this point. "I said, 'You've never believed me...every time I brought the subject up—' "

" 'You put me down. Man, how that hurt,' " they chorused.

"I was going to explain. The Army sniper interrupted us," Abby said, crossing her arms; trying to draw into herself. "Tim, I've _always_ believed you. I believed you from that first day when you had your preliminary testing. I know it goes against what I would expect, as a scientist. But I know and trust _you._ And I respect your judgment. If _you_ believed you had this ability, then that was all the convincing I needed."

"_What?!_ But you said—"

"I know, I know," she said in misery. "I said you were mistaken, it was impossible, you should be too bright a guy to believe in it, yadda yadda. I was lying. To protect you."

"From_ what?!"_

"From all the disbelievers who would ridicule you or at least tease you, or devalue your opinion because they thought you were a kook. Tim, I love the way I look. I'm not apologetic about my tats or how I dress. But it took me some time to develop this thick of skin. At first, the things people said about me, or the way they looked at me, really hurt. I didn't want you to carry the kind of hurt I had for so long...that's the only reason I said to you what I did."

She was crying now. He held her close, thinking physical hurts didn't matter, if the heart could still love. And his certainly did.

- - - - -

The next few days passed quickly; a little sightseeing on Sunday and Monday, with replacement passport applications submitted for Tim and Abby Monday morning. "We'll have a long wait," Tim said with a sigh as the group had lunch near the Louvre. "Aren't applications still taking around six months to process?"

"What better place to spend six months than in Paris?" asked Abby, taking his arm, with a smile.

Gibbs only gave them an eye. Far too much violation of rule number 12, he felt. "Don't make any plans," he said. "Your passports will be ready this afternoon. We fly home tomorrow."

And indeed the passports were ready by 1 o'clock. When the office of the Secretary of the Navy asks that passports get made, they get made.

- - - - -

Jenny herself greeted them when the plane touched down at Dulles airport, and crowed over Tim's and Abby's hair colors. Abby had also let her hair down for the full effect. Pictures were taken, and then the entire crew bade them get back to the way they used to look. Jenny had already booked appointments for them at her hairdresser.

- - - - -

After being given a couple days off, Friday found Abby and Tim back at work; eager to catch up on two missed weeks. Tim had spent the last couple of days at Abby's, and it was a sweet, comforting time, as they rehashed all the details of their long adventure. Then on Friday morning early Tim announced that it was time that he returned home, for both of them probably had laundry, cleaning, and other mundane tasks to do. Abby was about to protest, but bit it back, and with a friendly smile, watched him go; heading for his apartment before going in to work.. She knew he was giving her an out, for with the weekend here, she might want to go out with some guy. Tim didn't say it, but she could see he was thinking it.

In her lab, she greeted with gusto all the equipment she had left behind, and Bert the hippo was fussed over. Things were getting back to normal. _She_ was getting back to normal. Abby was reclaiming her old life, and everyone would see that. Caf-Pows, evidence to examine...just _what_ did Kaneesha, that shorty from Intel, think she was doing with Abby's cleaning fluids?!...and loud, ear-popping music was what made NCIS' lab the success it was. Everything was wonderful...

Tim came down to see her around 2 o'clock on an errand from Gibbs; retesting to be done on a fingerprint set that hadn't turned up match in any fashion; maybe Abby could do better at getting good prints off the evidence. He smiled at her, but seemed to be holding back. "Any plans for tonight?" he asked, casually.

She shrugged, and continued to work at a computer. "Oh, just hang loose, I guess. See if anything comes up."

"Oh. Yeah. Me, too."

"Uh...maybe we could...catch a movie and dinner tomorrow night. If you want to."

He brightened, for a moment, then turned shy again. "I'd like that. If you want to, that is."

"Pick me up at 6?"

"Sure." With more of a smile, and a little wave, he left, her Tim-is-my-good-friend smile singing softly in his mind. Abby was back to the way she had been. But _she'd _suggested, back in Paris, that they get married...and maybe they would..._I can hope..._

When he was gone, she hugged herself and danced. She could play the distancer as long as was needed. She could afford to wait, and let him come to realize, gradually, of her feelings, if that's what would take to make him more comfortable. After all, _she_ knew the truth about her feelings. _There goes the man I'm going to marry!_

- - - - -

Gibbs had already thoroughly debriefed them, but had warned that Jenny would probably want to talk to them as well. At close to four that day, Tim was summoned to the Director's office.

"Sit down, McGee. Water? Coke? Coffee?" When he shook his head, she left her desk and pulled up a chair close to his. "How's the arm?"

"Getting better. I start physical therapy next week."

"Good, good. Take whatever time off you need. Damn Army...Gibbs' report was that you saw a vision in the flickering Eiffel Tower lights?" she asked, looking at her notes.

"Yes, ma'am. Kind of like combining different incomplete parts to form a whole. For example, if you take apart the different painted layers of old-fashioned cell animation, and then overlap them again. That's what the images in the lights were like for me, excepted separated by brief amounts of time rather than depth. My mind recombined the elements." _And also ran what looked like a computer program running; something I still don't understand and which still scares me. Minds shouldn't be able to do that. _"The lab director knew that would be my reaction, based on the tests he put me through, and created that program. His people hacked into the Tower's computer system, and substituted their program for the Tower's. They knew I would take the bomb threat seriously, and go back to work for them." He turned his head and looked out the window. _Things could so easily have turned out differently...were it not for the help of people who really cared about me..._

Jenny studied him, then smiled a little as she changed the subject. "I spoke with Abby a little while ago. She said you two may be getting married."

Tim blanched. "I'd hoped she wouldn't say anything about that to anyone! We, uh, would have to work out a lot of things first if we were to get married..."

"She said it was a Mother of All Secrets. I may have pulled it out of her, but don't worry, I won't tell anyone..." She smiled kindly. "You're wise to wait. Make sure that your feelings are solid before you rush into anything. You have time.

"She also said that she thought Paris would be a lovely place to get married in..."

Tim absorbed this, not entirely surprised. He thought the same thing.

"...but I should tell you that there's a residency requirement for getting married in France. At least one party must live there for a minimum of 40 days immediately prior to the wedding day." She looked off in the distance for a minute, not saying how she'd come by this fact.

This time Tim didn't even try to keep his face bland. _Forty days! In my leave category, factoring in the other occasional days off I need, it'll take _years_ to save up that much vacation time. And that doesn't take a honeymoon into account...!_

"There are other ways," Jenny said. " 'Leave without pay.' Or...a detail to the Marseilles office could be arranged. I don't have any offices that feel they have enough staff; Marseilles, I'm sure would be glad for temporary help."

Tim grinned. "Thank you, ma'am! I'll keep that in mind!"

She smiled again, pleased."Finally, your eidetic memory. It's caused you no end of trouble, McGee. And I'm not sure it's over yet. So what we've done is had your tests discredited."

"Ma'am?"

"Danny Hobart, your eidetics champion over at the Dewey federal building, is being transferred to London to advance his various studies; whatever they are today. Such a shame that your testing was done under faulty circumstances. You've been found to have a _good_ memory, and one with a few quirks, but that's all. So much fuss over nothing."

Tim stared at her, then it sunk in. "You're telling everyone outside NCIS that I _don't _have an eidetic memory."

"Yes, that will be our official word, and yours, too, Tim. This is partly for your own protection. We don't want anyone else snatching you or shooting at you over this. You're a good special agent, and I know you like the job. We want you to keep on doing just that. You hide your talent. If we need to make use of it—and I have _no doubt whatsoever_ that you have this talent—we'll let you know."

She rose, and so did he. "Come talk to me if you have any questions or concerns, Tim. You know how to reach me."

"(202) 555-7396," he said, with a touch of impishness. "And if you think of changing your private line number, I'll still probably find it out. And remember it."

"Good day, Tim," she laughed, and showed him out.

- The End –

- - - - -

Author's note: There were several influences for this story, including a number of movies set in Paris, showing it off in all its loveliness. _Rush Hour III_ proved that any one, including two less-than-successful crime fighters, could have a great time in Napoleon's fair city; that one probably inspired me to set the story there. But just as large an influence was the 1963 classic thriller/romance/mystery/comedy _Charade_, which is as romantic as all get-out. The chapter 13 scene of Abby hiding in a _Metro_ station phone booth was borrowed from there, with thanks.


End file.
